No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
by MischiefManagedAndFishCustard
Summary: With the whole of London in the state of horror that one barber left them in before his death, who is to blame for the mess? And does Anthony Hope have any real chance in winning Johanna's heart now the story has really begun?
1. Chapter 1

I am a huge Sweeney Todd fan, but this is my first Sweeney phic. This is going to be a challenge for me, as it's a story about a growing relationship. I usually like to complicate things...And I _adore _Johanna and I _adore _Anthony, but I think their relationship is far more complex than some people believe. I could be very wrong here, I've never actually read a Sweeney fic, but I always got the impression that Johanna wasn't in love with Anthony and that what she did, she did for survival. Please don't throw things at me! This is why I'm writing this fic, so I can delve into a romantic relationship between the two which I find realistic. Don't worry, there'll be a lot of fluff!

Enough of me rambling, here it is...Pleeeease review if you like it! Please? I'm not above begging!

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**Paper Flowers.**

**_Chapter One._**

The welcoming embrace of slumber enveloped young Anthony and blackness surrounded him like a light shroud. He was vaguely aware of the closed hansom he was in, jostling quickly down the streets of London, but everything was veiled to him in this restful cocoon. No dreams polarised in front of his eyes, and his face flopped forward, his chin resting on his chest, as his breathing became easier. Nothing was bothering him, all the previous terror was as distant from him in this precious moment as the scenery that passed by unnoticed outside the buggy.

_But there's no place like London!_

That bitter, bitter growl spat through his rest as dauntingly as if Big Ben had tolled in the middle of his mind and he jolted awake as he caught the last remnents of a vivid picture flash through his punctured sleep. He shied away from it, his eyes falling upon the person that sat opposite him. But bile crept up his throat nonetheless and he had to force it down...

The Hell he had seen downstairs at Mrs. Lovett's Pie Emporium...A small boy with hair the colour of soot stood over two corpses, the reflections of the fire from the oven dancing upon them like devilish imps. Blood ran like water, entwining the lifeless figures, and he stepped back in horror as much from the stench of what seemed like rotting flesh, then the ugly sight that met him.

The boy looked at him, and a silver razor dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor. His face crumpled and whatever had seized him previously to commit such a heinous crime, disappeared, and tears racked through his small body as he sobbed, holding out his hand towards Anthony.

Anthony stumbled back from him and he hissed in shock when he saw Johanna's guardian dead and bloody as well.

"Did you kill them all?" was all he could manage to say.

But all the boy did was cry, and in a blind panic Anthony screamed out, "Johanna! _Johanna!"_

He did not see her body down here and he turned, racing up the steps, the only sound was the blood pounding through his ears and the child sobbing below where he left him...

_Stop it!_ He swore to himself and he made himself pull away from those thoughts. He knew he would never forget those moments of hysteria, so there was no use in thinking of it now...No use..._Oh Mr. Todd_, he thought, a pang slicing through him. Such an odd, mysterious man who had obviously been troubled...But they had spoken often on the ship after he had found him on the sea, and while it had never been a friendship of warmth, Anthony would like to think they had had a friendship nonetheless. Nobody deserved an ending like that...

Johanna was shaking, he noticed. The slight girl was curled up in a ball, his coat around her shoulders as they made their journey far away from Fleet Street (and the horrors that lay behind there). The cap he had given to cover her beautiful hair was pulled low, and one could be forgiven for thinking the person was an effeminate looking boy.

"You should be asleep," he said softly.

Her eyes did not wander from the window, and she said nothing in response.

Anthony watched her, concern over his boyish features. He wished he could reach forward and touch her cheek gently to console her, but she had avoided his touch as much as she could during the night. It was a warm night. It was not from the weather her body trembled.

From his own nerves his legs were trembling now that sleep escaped him, and he folded his arms trying to calm himself. He thought of a song his Mother used to sing to him as a child, and he hummed it himself, trying to put a salve around his beloved's fears. His Mother had always fancied he had a lovely voice, and had been openly disappointed when the seas and his Uncle's tales of adventure had drawn him away from a life of music. She had been so proud when he had been accepted into the cathedral's choir…

To his frustration she started to weep softly, and he ceased that pursuit. He would find it bitterly amusing to tell his Mother in his next letter that his voice had made an angel weep.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she did look at him this time, "Please…Please you have a fine voice. Please continue singing."

He leaned forward concerned, "Then why does it make you cry? Johanna…What must I do so you won't cry?"

She closed her eyes and he did not get an answer. So sitting back, disappointed, they spent the next few moments in silence till she blurted out, "For God's sake, please sing! I can't stand the silence! All I can hear is her screaming, and I can't get it out of my mind!"

Anthony's brow creased – what _had_ she seen that he had not? What he had been a witness to had been bad enough! Oh, Johanna, Johanna…

So the young man sung for his pretty love, as they rode out into the night, and she cried softly. She did not stop shaking.


	2. Chapter 2

Oooh, thank you to those who reviewed so very much!!

Noelle, thank you m'lovely dear. Now shut up and WRITE YOUR HARRY POTTER IDEA. Yes, I'm still not in the swing of things but it's getting better (to everyone else, I've had major writers block issues).

Haha, Vicki, yeah, you're awesome. Hope this chapter's long enough for you!

BeBopALua – thank you so much for your kind words. I really cannot believe how little A/J fics there are! I could have written this ages ago, but I assumed there'd be way too many and I'd bring nothing new to the table. But my gosh! There's barely any! And you're right about "polarised" ha, thanks. That's actually a word I was debating on too.

Sierra, thank you!

And I realised in my rambling I wrote "phic" before Chapter One started – I'm so used to writing the Phantom of the Opera fanfiction, phic slipped. Ha.

I'm sorry this chapter isn't action packed. It will be, I promise - I just thought it important to read Johanna's thoughts and the more I wrote, the more it came blurting out.

Thank you, and enjoy!

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**_Chapter Two._**

Johanna could not sleep. She tossed and turned under the cotton sheets in the bed. It squeaked mercilessly, and she winced at the thought of keeping Anthony awake from the sound, but she was so restless and fidgety she could not stop. Though he seemed to genuinely be asleep, outstretched on his back, his mouth half open as he lay on the makeshift pallet at the foot of the bed on the floor he had assembled for himself. He hadn't moved a muscle. He had hired an inn for the night, until "the excitement died down" he had said, his voice wavering after he used the word "died" as if it would pain her.

She could not sleep. How on earth could _he _sleep? Didn't visions of what had met him haunt him? She could never scrub the blood from her mind, the stench from her nose – would she ever smell flowers again without the thought of torn and bloody flesh rotting her senses? And the woman would not stop _screaming. _She covered her mouth with her hands and repressed a cry. She could barely breathe – how the devil could somebody have so much blood? She began to tremble, and her attempts at restraining her cries were useless as her small suppressed squeaks turned to convulsing sobs.

Anthony was beside her in a moment after she woke him, and he was trying to soothe her as best he could. The moonlight that shone through the thin curtains revealed such anxiety for her on his features, that she thought she would be sick. _He barely even knows me and he looks as besotted as a devoted pup._ She pulled away from him forcefully and lost her balance, falling out the other side of the bed and onto the wooden floor heavily. He ran at once to her side, and after trying to help her back up but being thwarted, he murmured soothingly, "He's dead Johanna, he's dead! He can't hurt you anymore, he can't lock you away."

She had not realised she had been crying _his _name. Her guardian.

Oh lord…She sat up and huddled back in the corner of the room, her back against the wall and ignored the fretting young man, who combed his fingers through his hair in a distressed manner. She could barely look at him – she didn't care about the pain and confusion he must be feeling. The _idiot. _He must have thought that the moment he freed her, it would all be a happy ending, like a fairytale. The Prince rescues the golden haired Rapunzel from her locked tower and they live happily ever after. There is no _ever after. _How can people long for a happier _tomorrow_ when they would always live through _today?_ She had even heard him mutter the name Rapunzel fondly in her ear when he had taken her from the asylum. She had wanted to laugh when he had told her about all the places he had seen in his travels – _he _was a sailor? She had been the one to look out at the world from her window, never venturing out and he was more naïve than her!

She felt a spasm of guilt for her indifference to her liberator. He was a sweet young man and for whatever reason he was ardently loyal to her. But she could never love him, not the way he wanted her to. Does that love even exist? She didn't remember ever loving anybody – certainly she had _needed_ others before, but loved? Her heart was empty, yet it was heavy like a stone weighed down in water. Perhaps being capable of loving was something you were born with…She had been told her father was a criminal and her mother deranged. Was it any wonder then that she couldn't love Anthony? She would play the part, wear the mask. She didn't mean to avoid his touch, she would learn to show she savoured it…She would learn.

The guilt about Anthony did not last long however, as her thoughts crashed back onto the man she had known practically all her life.

She was in a box hiding, as the Devil slashed at him with a silver razor. She had not been able to tear her eyes away from the scene as hot crimson spurted from him…That thought quickly turned to her creeping down the stairs long minutes after she had been told to run and forget the Murderer's face. How could she ever forget the face of Satan? The stark white streak coated in red blood that ran through his hair, the soulless eyes, the blood covering his features. A vile stench caught her off guard and her hands clapped to her face as she saw first a dead golden haired woman on the floor and then her Turpin lying in a pool of blood as The Devil and his Mistress danced around in what seemed like glee. She remembered his voice, overpowering the woman's and the words chilled her…

_The history of the world my pet__…Is learn forgiveness and try to forget…_

Johanna had started to back up a few steps slowly.

_And life is for the alive my dear. So let's keep living it, really living it. Really living it!!_

With a thrust, the Devil threw her into the cavern of flames and before he shut the entrance and locked her in where she would spend her eternity, Johanna had turned on her heel, the woman's screams following her. The Devil had finished with her. Johanna had been screaming herself as she ran and she ran and she ran to be as far from the Earth's opening to Damnation as she could…

She didn't bother remembering how Anthony had found her. Her mind centred on Mr. Turpin. Her cold, dead Mr. Turpin.

He had taken her in as an infant. He had raised her to be a lady fit for a gentleman's wife with every privilege that a foster daughter of wealth has. The gowns and the jewels and the toys and the trinkets…He had showered her with possessions – perhaps to try and draw her mind away from the obvious, that the mansion was her prison and her room her cell. Oh how she had _envied _people walking about the street as if it were their right. As a child her nose had pressed against the glass as she longed to remember what it was like to complain about the bitter Winter breeze. Yes, she had gone on outings but not without the imagined collar around her pretty throat. She had been watched like a hawk, and it was always a rushed affair. _Hurry Johanna dear, we must hurry_…Hurrying from leaving the house and getting into a carriage, to getting out of a carriage and being escorted into houses. She had never savoured the sun, the smell of grass…She had only watched from her lavish dolls house window.

The night she had been sent to the asylum Mr. Turpin had told her regretfully how he had spared the rod, but the ungrateful child had been spoiled. Oh, he was _clever. _He had known how his sad, pitying, regretful voice used to chill her more than a reprimand. How she had longed for a reprimand, even a slap! But he knew her mind, he _knew _how it tortured her as he thought of cruel punishments. Oh, he had never harmed a hair on her head physically but he _owned _her in every sense of the word. He manipulated her, was cruel to her…Played such horrible mind games where she felt the lowest of the low. He would punish _others_ for her transgressions.

Johanna had been desperate to hear gossip growing up; anything of the outside world was as delightful to her as a box of sweets would be for another child. A maid Sarah, used to give her programmes of plays, of operas, of anything that was going on. She would tell her the scandals of high-society and Johanna would gobble all the news up greedily. Johanna had been made to watch the girl's dismissal from the household. Poor, poor Sarah. Mr. Turpin had refused to give her a letter of commendation and had said she had been filling his Johanna with evil, destructive gossip that would only harm her delicate mind. The last Johanna ever saw of her was Beadle Bamford escorting her from the room. Mr. Turpin had looked at Johanna so sadly and had asked her in a whisper, "See, Johanna my darling? See what you made me do?"

It had been the same with the milkman who had no ulterior motives but to put a smile on the usually sad yellow haired child by passing along sweets to her when he came on his rounds early in the morning. He apparently had been teaching her to trust strangers. Jacob, the son of the cook had smuggled in books for her – a treasured commodity for her. Mr. Turpin had provided her with a governess and she had been educated, but reading lots of books was not fitting for a girl. She had cried bitter tears as she heard the boy being whipped while she was ordered to tear out page after page of _Sense and Sensibility _and throw them into the fire. She had never found out if Elinor Dashwood and Edward Ferrars had overcome their obstacles.

Mr. Turpin took everything of the outside world away from her. He repulsed her yet she _needed _him. He was all she had ever known. Her one constant.

"Johanna, he can never hurt you anymore," Anthony tried to reassure her, bending down to gaze at her squarely in the eyes.

Tears brimmed and fell down her cheeks in rivulets and she managed to ask, "How can you be so _cold?"_

His brow creased in confusion. He did not understand, she didn't expect him to. He never would.

"To say he is dead so _callously_…" He had not been a witness to his murder. He had not had to rely on him his whole life!

Her sobs began to get heated. Oh God, he's dead, but she needs him! She _needs _him! her sanity slips whenever he leaves. She knew it was twisted, but she had always fretted when he was gone. He needed to protect her – from everything, and from herself. He had told her, her Father had been a criminal and her mother deranged. They were both long dead, but their deviancy still lived on inside her. He had told her, her Mother had been a poor soul, that she had succumbed to her demons. But he had promised her he would _never _let that befall her. He would protect her, keep her safe.

She was a fool to think she could live without him! What did Anthony know about _anything? _She would fall into madness and become the Devil's new mistress and she would dream of dancing with him every night! The devil with the crimson blood coated in his white streak of hair!

She was having trouble breathing she was crying so hard. Anthony slipped beside her, whispering words of comfort, and she allowed him to pull her close as his hand rubbed her back, "Breathe slowly, breathe slowly…" He stole a quick kiss to her hair, but she was so in need of comfort she did not pull away just yet.

His words pulled her back, like a kite being reeled in. Her panic slowly ebbed away and the madness she had begun to feel diminished slowly until she could feel his warmth, feel the wall on her back, feel the wood underneath her. His words continued but were not meaningless comfort he had been prone on saying before, but he told her why she should return to him –

"Johanna," he coaxed lovingly, "Johanna, it will be daytime soon. I will buy you gowns as is proper, and you won't have to wear my breeches or my shirt anymore. I'll bring you flowers and when the excitement fades over what has just happened, we'll leave on my ship _the Bountiful_ and sail to my home. Have you ever seen the ocean? It's a myriad of colours…The storybooks lie Johanna, it isn't simply blue. It's sapphire, emerald, touches of purple here and there, silver too – depending on the mood of the sky…It's beautiful Johanna…You'll fall in love with it, with its unpredictability…The sea can never be tamed – the sky tries to with its storms and its lightening and thunderous threats, but the sea retorts with just as much power…"

He was pulling her back to him, pulling her to reality with his soft sweet words. And it worked. When she was calm she moved away from him, but he did not move, staying there beside her on the hard wooden floor till sleep enveloped him once more. She waited till he was fully asleep, when his breathing became deeper, and she rested her head against his shoulder, nuzzling him. The poor fool received his reward of affection, but he was not aware of it.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you Vicki, my love. We must chat about Les Mis.

Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease review people. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease. See? I never said I was above begging. I promise it'll get good..

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**_Chapter Three._**

The next few days seemed utterly surreal to Anthony. Wherever he went people were talking about what had happened. He had to remain in the inn most of the time and not venture to his ship – there would be no way he could leave the city in a hurry the moment something like this happened, especially as he still had business to attend to. It would be far too suspicious for a young merchant who would receive a generous wage for his wares to abruptly leave with no apparent good reason. He had found another man, an acquaintance he knew here to take on the contract. Selling spices and silk from the Middle East was a lucrative business; _that_ had been no trouble. He had several contacts in this city. He had intended to set sail the moment Johanna was free, but now he had to wait till everything settled down.

If he thought about it, he realised he had been incredibly naïve to have not thought that the murder of one of the most prominent judges in London would be vital news throughout perhaps the whole of the United Kingdom. Investigators were on the hunt – Anthony dared not let Johanna roam from even her room. She was an integral part of the investigation they said, the ward of the judge who vanished as if into thin air after his bloody death. Anthony knew it wasn't going to be forever and she was in a better place with him, but he sometimes felt sickened – he had taken her with the sole intention of freeing her from her gilded cage, only to find herself trapped in another enclosure.

She would barely eat, she would hardly talk and she only slept momentarily. All she would do is stare vaguely out the window…He didn't quite know what to do.

The supposed _facts_ that ran rife around the streets of London were even more disturbing than fiction and something Anthony had a hard time believing – they said the meat in the pies which had become quite famed around London made by the Mrs. Lovett woman were made from human victims! That was simply _absurd_ – ludicrous! The things people come up with when they had too much time spent being idle. Mrs. Lovett had been a warm, friendly lady – she had voiced straightaway that of course he could bring Johanna after he helped her escape. And Mr. Todd to be involved in such filth! Mr. Todd who had had such a tragic past, who –

He had been sitting down by himself at the bar in the tavern downstairs at the inn they were staying at when suddenly his thoughts collided together. The bartender woman (Nora? Dora? What was her name?) looked over to him curiously, raising a brow as he choked on his gin, spluttering all over her clean bar. She shuffled over and gave him a look as he composed himself while she wiped the bench with a cloth, "You alright there lad?"

He nodded his head vigorously, still trying to clear his throat as he half dropped his tumbler, the amber liquid sloshing on the bench. She said nothing about it, but cleaned it again, "Want another drink?"

But he could not answer, in fact, he hadn't heard her. He swallowed in shock, and leant forward, one hand resting on the bench to balance himself as he made sense of the discovery he had just had.

_There was a barber and his wife… And she was beautiful._

He had not been a simpleton to have deduced Mr. Todd had been talking about himself, their first night in London in that dark alleyway, where it seemed his friend was delving into an even darker past.

_A foolish barber and his wife. She was his reason and his life. And she was beautiful. And she was virtuous…_

Mr. Todd had acquired lodging on Fleet Street it seemed the moment he returned with Anthony. He had set up shop as a barber, and word had spread throughout the streets after he had won a battle with a fellow rival that he was the best at his trade.

_And he was naïve. _

He often thought he would have liked to have known the young Mr. Todd. He could not imagine the quiet, ominous man he knew now head over heels in love with a woman, let alone married. He had made Anthony's crew on board nervous, those dark eyes of his staring out at nothing. They had not liked Anthony keeping him on ship. But there was something about Mr. Todd that made Anthony not listen to any of their foolish superstitions about him. There was a deep sadness about him that he pitied. The other men thought it was deviancy, but Anthony could see it for what it was – loss. And he felt safer with Mr. Todd on board anyway, what with him being in debt to him for rescuing him out on the seas. Anthony often felt uneasy captaining _the Bountiful. _He could sense the resentment of older men who had to answer to such a youth. They assumed because of his Uncle's reputation that that was why he was given the position. They would not dare strike the nephew of such a famed merchant, but if ever that barrier broke, Anthony was glad to have Mr. Todd with him.

All his crew could see was his youth, just as all they could see from Mr. Todd was an embittered demeanour. They had no idea that Anthony had only ever lived, breathed, eaten, slept and dreamt about the ocean since he had been very small and his Uncle had first taken him on his own ship. Anthony's childhood had consisted of memorising and learning how to tie ropes, learn maps by heart – he had spent every summer when he was not at school aboard scrubbing the decks, learning how to predict the weather, being taught how to understand the tempestuous seas. The sea was his _life. _His Mother had said regretfully on more than one occasion that instead of blood, salt water ran through his veins. And _they_ had the audacity to judge him because of his age.

Stupid fools.

_There was another man who saw, that she was beautiful. A pious vulture of the law, who with a gesture of his claw; removed the barber from his plate. _

He could not think. He could not breathe. He just sat there as it all seemed to make sense. Mr. Todd had finally had revenge. That was the villain he had spoken about, that had transported him to the sunburnt Hell that was Australia, to slave under that ball of fire they had the gall to call the sun. To toil in such an unnatural land on false charges…Would drive anybody mad enough to murder…

He had run in on them, that day in the barber shop…And Mr. Todd had had a dark tantrum about the interruption, nothing like Anthony had seen before. To think – if he had run in a few minutes later instead, what would he have found?

What would Mr. Todd have done to him, finding him as a witness to murder? That thought chilled his blood. He couldn't be sure Mr. Todd would have spared him. He'd like to think he would, that he would remember Anthony had saved his life, but…

_Then there was nothing but to wait. _

_And she would fall, so soft, so young, so lost and oh so beautiful._

He threw down a few coins in payment to the lady and stood to go back upstairs where Johanna remained. He could not dwell on horrible possibilities any longer.

Johanna preferred to be alone, actually asking him to go and have a drink and leave her…But he did not like leaving her for too long. She was such a lonely creature.

"That's a pretty little box of sweets, you got there lad," commented the barmaid as he picked up a box he had bought from a confectionary shop while out trying to sort out business earlier, "I notice you buy a lot of them while you're out."

Anthony looked at her; puzzled at her tone, "What of it?" he tried to keep his tone pleasant.

"Ah, nothin', nothin' lad. I just like small details, I do," she said, leaning on the bar, her chin resting on her palm, "Such a nice satin ribbon tied around it – I bet that costs extra, don't it?"

Anthony said nothing, he just stared at the woman who smiled as if she knew something, "Just an odd touch for a bachelor like yourself. Always buying boxes of chocolates with ribbon tied around it. I see no sweetheart of yours come visit," she shrugged, "How's that other young man you're rooming with? I barely see him, is he unwell?"

Anthony swallowed, but was quite pleased with himself as he answered calmly, "Yes, I fear he is. But no fear, rest will cure him."

"Ah, yes, rest," the barmaid went back to her work, cleaning empty glasses and Anthony thought this was a good time to take his leave.

"A pity."

Her voice made him stop, and he sighed, "What is a pity, Ma'am?"

"It's a pity about that young Miss Barker. Disappearing and all, after such a terrible crime," the woman stared at him and after a pause, added, "Isn't it?"

"Yes…Yes…Pity…"

Had his heart stopped beating? He was in such inner turmoil, he wouldn't doubt it.

But the damned woman kept talking, "All this murdering going on and by the most peculiar of people. Why, they even say a child was involved – a young boy, no older than ten at the most. How shocking is that?"

Anthony must have mumbled something in affirmation to her comments as she smiled at him, "Can't trust nobody these days, can you lad? If children can be involved in such things…" she shook her head muttering to herself, and then turned for a moment, then facing Anthony again she held out a bottle of milk.

Anthony stood there dumbly, not understanding what she was doing till she waved for him to take it, "For the poor dear upstairs. Needs some sustenance. You got to be careful who you trust," but then she said sharply, "But you can't stop trusting everybody, young man. There are good people around still, there are."

And she turned her back finally on young Anthony, continuing with her work.

He backed away a little, unsure about the scene that had just taken place. He finally turned to go upstairs, he needed to see Johanna…

_And the lady sir? Did she succumb?_

But what _had _happened to Mr. Todd's wife? Had he disposed of her, after he had sated his desire for her, throwing her husbandless and shamed into the street? Was she still alive somewhere, penniless? Was she dead?

What would Judge Turpin have done to poor Johanna? Anthony shuddered at this thought, of a man who took pretty young woman and treated them like cheap trinkets…

He made his way to the room, unlocked the door and paused a moment as he opened it slightly, hearing her weep as usual…And he sighed.

_Johanna, you may mourn the loss of your guardian in a way you do not understand and in a way you shouldn't…You've had a terribly miserable life…Oh but Johanna, you are the fortunate one now. What happened to poor Mrs. Todd?_

It was so sudden and unexpected, but he slumped against the doorway, his own tears falling from his eyes. He wept for a man he had never really known well and for his wife he had no knowledge over. He did not hear the weeping stop inside, so lost in his own thoughts, but the door opened and Johanna stood there staring at the state he was in. then she took him by the arm and gently led him in. And...He did not imagine the gentle squeeze she gave him.


	4. Chapter 4

Haha Vicki, you're funnehhhhh. Thanks m'lovely love.

Noelle, you're a dude. I swear though, I'm never going to escape this Edmund Dantes thing, am I? I haven't even read the book and I'm apparently drawing parallels! I feel like Lovett when she gets pissy at Sweeney, "It's always about the bloody Judge" just with you "It's always about bloody Dantes". Gah, it's haunting me! Maybe if I finally read the damned book it'll leave me alone. Aww, but I don't want to hate Fernand, he was the only decent thing in the film. Awww, loved your review…AHHHHH, I JUST IMDB'D IT AND FERNAND WAS GUY PIERCE. OH, DEAR LORD! I FEEL VIOLATED!! *SOBS* HELP ME, I THOUGHT FERNAND WAS HOT!! *Sobs*

Thanks you two, as always.

Reviews would be lovely…Then Noelle and Vicki, my two friends, won't feel so obligated to give them…Am I doing something wrong? Am I not moving this plot quick enough? Do you want a naked Anthony scene dancing in the streets to…No…Can't even joke about that, that's just disturbing… :|

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**_Chapter Four._**

Johanna opened the door after hearing footsteps moving to the doorway. She tried to stop the tears, for it always distressed Anthony to see her cry when he could do nothing to put things right. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief she had found in his coat pocket earlier – it was white, with his initials _A.H. _embroidered in scarlet, and underneath was also embroidered blue waves, accompanied in gold alongside it _Psalm 139. _A woman must have made this for him; that verse holding some meaning for him. This did not inspire petty jealousy as it would other women, but only curiosity. Who was the woman? And what meaning had she to Anthony? She then stood and pulled the door completely open, surprised when she found him crying softly to himself.

For some odd reason she had to stop herself from pulling him in and burying her face in his chest, holding him tightly and wanting to share whatever pain he had. And at the same time relief tingled in her stomach – he felt sorrow too! They had something to share finally. Before his only distress seemed to be at her own sorrow and him trying to cheer her had seemed – not insensitive – but revealing more brightly to her their differences. He was good and kind and happy. She had felt she could never reach him.

He was so good at keeping up appearances; it had both pained and pleased her to see her sailor weep. That of course then confused her as to why she _should_ care. And then she realised that she had labelled him as _her _sailor in her mind. It was all very confusing. But she reached out and took his arm, bringing him from his thoughts and back to the hallway he was standing in, pulling him in. She squeezed his arm ever so slightly, and he lowered his head, scrubbing away his tears and missed her soft smile she offered him. When he looked back at her, it had faded.

"No, don't…" she had begun to say she liked seeing his tears, then realised how foolish that would sound, and instead spied the milk bottle he was holding.

He noticed her looking at it and he smiled slightly, "The barmaid thought my unwell friend should drink some."

She nodded slightly, then turned and sat back down. Anthony closed the door and came in, placing the bottle on the small table they had. Then he smiled and presented her with a box of chocolates. She smiled in thanks, inwardly sighing. Whenever he went out he bought her chocolates. He was trying too hard…Still, it was rather sweet how he offered them to her. He said nothing, only smiled slightly – almost shyly. She untied the yellow ribbon and placed it aside, then opened the box, offering him to choose the first treat.

He smiled as if entertained and took the box, studying them for a moment, "I see that my usual gift doesn't please my lady."

Johanna stared at him and blushed a deep crimson, a shock of warmth erupting in her chest at his comment. Were her thoughts that transparent? He took a chocolate caramel and bit into it, then sucked the filling, "A pity," he said in a mouthful, "I'm going to have to eat them myself."

"I…" she began, but Anthony laughed good naturedly, and set the box down.

She watched as he cheerfully went over to the window, and pulled it up, sticking his head out into the small garden.

"Johanna, I need your help!" he called and obligingly, even if a little confused, she went over beside him.

"Anthony, I appreciate the chocolates, I do! I'm only tired," she tried to assure him.

He said nothing to this, but dug deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a small brown paper bag.

"Do you think there are any robins in this garden?" he asked, opening the bag and pouring some seeds onto the windowsill. He turned to her and raised an eyebrow.

She was confused about his motives. What was he trying to do? There was an awkward silence for a moment before she sighed and answered, "I don't know…There is a Jay, he hops around sometimes to say hello."

"Really?" Anthony sounded offended, "Well he hasn't introduced himself to _me_."

Johanna moved and sat on the bed, folding her hands neatly in her lap, "You'll be waiting for awhile. He doesn't come often."

Anthony looked a tiny bit mischievous at her cynical claim and he asked musingly, "How much would you wager on that, Miss Barker?"

She pouted, "I don't gamble, _Mr. Hope. _Only godless fools do such a thing. Anyway, I don't have anything that you would want."

His mischievousness deepened, "I wouldn't be so quick to judge. What about a kiss?"

Her eyes widened at such an imprudent request, but then she folded her arms, "You shan't get one anyway, but it won't be because of me. He's a stubborn little fellow."

"Oh, I'm used to _stubbornness_," he said playfully and laughed when she looked utterly affronted at that remark, "Very well, very well! I won't force a kiss, but I at least want a smile."

She raised her chin defiantly and looked away, but she was surprised that this was done with playfulness on her side too. He laughed and turned back to the window and called out, "Mr. Jay, do be kind and come introduce yourself to me. I believe you are already acquainted to Miss Barker who I care for and I think it only right we acquaint ourselves."

Johanna let out a small laugh accidentally and he spun around to face her to catch her smile but she forced herself to look neutral again, though, she hid her face with her hands for a moment. He grinned knowingly and turned back, but unexpectedly let out a whistle – for a moment Johanna thought it was a bird already outside, but then she realised the whistle was coming from Anthony! Her hands fell from her face, her mouth opened in surprise as he whistled again. How was he doing such a thing? It wasn't a whistle that she had heard people do merrily as they were finishing their work, it was...Bird-like...So convincingly _untamed._

He leaned his head further out the window and whistled rather loudly, and she clapped in startlement when two birds sang in reply.

"Oh, Anthony!" she said breathless, but he did not turn to face her as he whistled a long reply. It was almost as if the barrier between humans and the creatures of the sky had been lifted as a small conversation began. And with a flourish two birds appeared and landed on the windowsill where they gobbled the offered meal greedily. Forgetting all her previous thoughts Johanna bounced from the bed and ran excitedly next to him.

"You called them for me!" she spoke excitedly, her thrill sounding almost child-like. She grabbed his coat and tugged at it, "Oh, _how_ did you do it?"

She was staring at the birds with such enthusiasm that she did not see the look of pure devotion he gave her. He held out his hand to touch her hair softly, but dropped it back to his side before the gesture happened…It was too soon for her to savour something like that. But how he relished seeing her bounce on her tiptoes in excitement.

The birds ate the seed in a hurry, and she begged him to add more to the windowsill so they wouldn't leave. She was startled a little when he gently took her hand, but allowed him to pour seed into her palm. She moved to scatter it over the windowsill, but he stopped her and without saying a word he drew her forward and she squeaked in delight when the little light brown Jay hopped onto her hand, his little beak tickling her skin as he gorged down his meal.

She was trembling at the sensation inside her and she began to cry and laugh at the same time, leaning in to Anthony and allowing him to place his arm around her waist. She was so close she could smell his cologne, feel his warmth, sense his breathing. Her other hand reached to pet the small bird ever so slightly and she laughed out loud in glee once again when the bird only shifted slightly and did not fly away in fright.

"Shall we name him, Johanna? It's only proper for a new friend to have a name," he said quietly.

She did not answer, so engrossed in the little creature in her palm that he chuckled, "Well, at least I won my smile."

She stiffened then, hearing that and she slowly looked up at him hesitantly where she deepened her smile for him. It was not out of awkwardness or unwillingness that she faltered – it was just so unusual for her…She hadn't had _fun _in…In a long while. Had she ever had fun at all?

"And I _suppose _you deserve a kiss too?" she asked lightly, trying to jest but failing miserably as her voice wavered.

His hand moved from her waist to her back, where he rubbed it softly and then he moved back, "I won a smile today, I think that's enough," he looked at her oddly for a moment and she could not understand what he was thinking. He tried to explain what he meant, stumbling over his words, "I don't want to _steal _a kiss…I want it freely given…" he cleared his throat and moved to where the box of chocolates had been left, "Anyway...Enjoy the birds, Johanna."


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter Five._**

Anthony stared out the window at the mother of pearl dawn, for a moment wishing he were an artist so he could capture the pale pinks and greys lined with specks of faint blue and even lilac. He could spend hours watching the sky and clouds; indeed, he had made it a part of his life. A sailor must learn to read the sky – what could seem like harmless puffs of white at breakfast could so often broil into a storm by afternoon tea, on the high seas. He was used to observing the heavens each morning, so much so he found himself surveying them even when he was on land.

It would be a stale day this one, but it would not storm at least. He turned his back on the washed out clouds, and flopped back down on the pallet he had made himself at the foot of the bed on the wooden floor, while Johanna slumbered under the cotton sheets in the bed, as usual curled in a ball. Anthony himself lay outstretched on his back, his arms reaching out either side of his body.

He was restless.

He wanted to get up and wander around. He had always been an early bird, rising at the crack of dawn (to the chagrin of his sisters whom he had taken great delight in waking the moment day was born, whilst growing up). His toes twitched to the rhythm of a tune only he could hear, and his fingers quietly joined in the beat, tapping the floor quietly.

He was feeling an odd sense of excitement. He was making progress with Johanna. Quiet, beautiful, sad Johanna. He needed to find somewhere where they could be by themselves outside – was that at all possible in busy London? There would have to be a secluded public garden somewhere. She had been deprived of so many things – things she probably had never thought about. Had she ever danced in the rain? Had she ever ran through Autumn leaves? He rolled over on to his side, he still could not define why it was that she meant so very much to him. He had avoided women in a _romantic_ sense all of his life. He had danced with countless girls, his closest friend was indeed one of the female species, his siblings (all five of them) were of the feminine variety, but he had always distanced himself from making any promises that would tie him down to the sleepy town he had grown up in. His dream had been to see every part of the world he could, to see mountains in Germany, to watch sunsets in the Caribbean, to…To do _everything. _He had thought that there was so much _more _to life than the predictable cycle of birth, childhood, work, marriage and death. How could people be happy with just roaming their small patch of land when there was a whole _world _to be discovered?

And that was what he had thought growing up, until the day he had gotten lost trying to find Hyde Park. Until he saw her. Then everything – _everything _he had used as the foundations of his life lost all meaning. He laughed to himself, lying on his bed, feeling an unnatural exhilaration that went through his whole body. He remembered his school days having to learn Latin and Greek and copious amounts of literature he had been sure he would never need to use, but was grateful during his months on sea that he had something to occupy his mind with. He recalled now, the Greek term _hubris. _It meant arrogance or pride. And in his younger days he had had countless amounts of _that, _believing he could set his course, direct his path. That nobody could break his stride until he chose to.

The gods had punished him with such conceit by tenfold when _her_ voice had captured him, when his face had turned upwards to her.

_Green finch and linnet bird, nightingale, blackbird, how is it you sing?_

Her voice, so delicate and beautiful, ensnared him at once. And the gods above laughed at how easy it was to capture the young Narcissus who had believed he guided his own steps. All those years keeping his heart safe to himself believing he had ownership and in just one sentence he had been willing to fling it at her feet, pleading her to take it. Golden haired Johanna, just how he had pictured Lorelei the siren who had been the cause of men's deaths when they had heard her singing sadly herself, upon the rocks. He had died too, only it did not matter because now he was born into a new life. Everything now was about her…Her voice had tied him with chains he could not break. He was hers.

And to think he had once laughed after reading about a young lovesick fool, Romeo Montague of Verona. Johanna was lovely, she was perfect and most importantly, they were making progress.

Well…They _had _been making progress. His Johanna still slept, and his restlessness grew. His stomach growled. Oh _when_ would she wake? It was 7 already!

He would not have to wait much longer. In a moment, three or so pairs of feet thundered down the stairs outside their room, making their way down to the dining room and Johanna stirred slowly, sighing as she was drawn from the little sleep she had managed to have. Disoriented for a moment as she struggled to remember her surroundings she called out faintly, "Marianne…" but cried out in startlement when instead of her maid wishing her a good morning and drawing the curtains, she was met with an energetic jack-in-the-box who popped up from the foot of her bed with an excited grin, "Ah! You're awake at last!"

"Why are you so happy…?" she pouted sitting up slowly, "It isn't natural to be so happy in the morning."

"On the contrary Miss Johanna, I don't know any other emotion I'm supposed to feel having you here with me," he said quite aware of the groan that would inspire from her, and she flopped back down on the pillows.

Anthony moved over to her side, taking her hand in his, and then looked at her concerned, "You're as cold as ice!"

"Yes, I suppose I am a little cold – no Anthony –" she sighed as he moved back to his makeshift bed, pulling his blanket off and coming over, placing it on the bed.

"Anthony, what will you have now? I can't have you falling ill now can I?"

"I am used to the cold, Johanna," he shrugged and then he asked brightly, "What would you like? Would you like breakfast? I'll go get breakfast shall I? would you like toasted bread? An egg too? I'll see if they have bacon…I…I was thinking while I'm out today I'll find somewhere where nobody will bother us and then I'll take you there and we can have a picnic. What do you say to that? Perhaps we can even just sit on the grass outside of this room and Mr. Jay can join us? Although I do think he resents my company, since he seems only to be attached to you…" he must have realised he was rambling, because he stopped and blushed.

Usually this would have been met by silence or an awkward pause, but today Johanna giggled quietly and squeezed his hand, "I'll look forward to the picnic Anthony…I do believe it will be my first picnic outside…Well, besides the odd church picnic."

"Your first _picnic?" _Anthony looked genuinely appalled at such a notion, but then he remembered he was supposed to be getting breakfast and he quickly left the room, clattering down the stairs reassuring her he would be quick.

He was happy. They were making progress. Perhaps he would procure a kite while out later, for the picnic…

* * *

The moment Anthony left the room Johanna's smile faded and she let out a slow shudder, remembering the dream she had that was interrupted by the footsteps outside the room. It was the same dream she had been having since they had fled Fleet Street. Fear of course had seized her, but there was something else now…Something else…

She was dancing with the demon barber and around them was an orange glow from the flames in the oven. He was covered in blood and as threatening as he was when she saw him dancing with that woman. Only he wasn't speaking as he had been before when he thrust the woman to burn. He was silent while they moved together, as he raised her arm and twirled her around, then pulled her back close to him. Wet crimson blood saturated his clothes but she didn't even dread the fact it could get on her, she just kept on staring at his face, his soulless eyes…

And she remembered him screaming from before as she lay in the trunk while the Judge was being murdered. He had screamed an echo of something that the Judge had hissed, as if it were a revelation of some sort, that he recognized the demon barber – though in her dream she was not aware of that memory, only that what they had said kept on pounding in her ears as she danced in the arms of a stranger – that she was sure it _meant _something.

_Benjamin Barker!_

* * *

Anthony was running up the stairs again with two platefuls of food that the barmaid had kindly given him, a piece of bacon in between his teeth. He kicked open the door with his foot and stepped in, then placed the plates on the table, then chewed the bacon properly. He turned to Johanna to say something but then whatever it was faded from his mind as he noticed her by the window, looking out pensively.

"Johanna…?"

"You promised you would keep me safe," she looked at him then, her mouth frowning, "And you have done a noble job of it – I don't blame you for anything, of course I don't. How could you possibly have known?"

He continued to chew on the piece of bacon slowly, unsure what to say, and she continued, "But there were murders Anthony. Bloody, cold murders…You brought me there because you were friends with – with a Mr. Todd, yes? Anthony…I need to know how you know – _knew – _him. Because he won't leave me alone when I sleep, he drives me mad."


	6. Chapter 6

Hey. Um, this is going to be my last chapter, then I think I'm going to stop this story. I really have no idea what anybody thinks of this - I'm not being an attention whore, it's just, this is my first Sweeney Todd story and I don't know what people expect or what people want or like. After the first chapter I've only gotten reviews from my two friends, and they're only doing it because they're being nice. I don't know if people like this or not. I'm kind of feeling a bit insecure about this story - I mean, I adore them both so much and have wanted to delve into their story since I saw Sweeney Todd at the cinemas, but if it's crap, I don't really want to...So...Yeah. Encouragement or constructive criticism (seriously, what don't you like?) are both welcome. If I get nothing, I'll just leave it. Thanks.

* * *

**_Chapter Six._**

Anthony's eyes looked upon Johanna sadly, "You have nightmares about Mr. Todd?"

"Of course," she answered, "Anthony, I once told you I never dream. I only have nightmares," she lifted her hands and covered her face trying not to weep, "I dream about dancing with him just as he did with that woman before he threw her into the fire. Every time I close my eyes."

Anthony shifted uncomfortably, his eyes betraying his thoughts – he couldn't believe Mr. Todd would do such a thing…

"You still doubt me?" she asked sharply, stepping forward a little.

She had told him exactly what she had seen, yesterday after they had fed the birds – when she finally thought she could trust him. And he had sat in thoughtful silence. It had struck her painfully then that he would have misgivings about her word on such matters.

"No, no, I don't doubt what you thought you saw," he murmured quietly, nervously hitting his sides with his fists.

"You don't doubt what I _thought _I saw? You think I imagined such a thing? A man throwing a woman into a fire? Do you think I'm so deranged and unstable –" she cried out.

He tried to calm her, stepping forward and taking her by the shoulders gently, "Johanna, dear Johanna – it…It was a terrible night…You saw things no person should have to bear – but I knew Mr. Todd – at least _somewhat…_And he would never…" he struggled to say what he was thinking, "He would never harm a woman…Sometimes we may think we see things…"

She laughed at him outright, "He would never harm a woman? He went to slit _my _throat Anthony, and only stopped because he had been distracted! That's what your precious Mr. Todd would have done to silence me! Not because he thought I was a young man but because I was a witness to his actions! And what of the beggar woman downstairs? You saw her too! How did she find herself there, covered in her own blood? Answer me that!"

Anthony's hands dropped to his sides, and he whispered, "I don't know…" then he began to walk to the table, "Let's just eat breakfast, shall we? It would be a shame for it to go cold."

She had stepped back, pressed to the wall as her breathing became quicker. For some reason she felt trapped, enclosed, cornered in this tiny room. Anthony turned to her as he began to seat himself and for a moment there was something oddly familiar about her darkened face contorting with rage – the twist of her mouth, the look in her eyes. She began to pace the length of the room, trembling in her helpless bubbling anger and whenever she reached the ends of the room she whipped around wildly like a feral cat strutting.

_Mr. Todd, you have to help me…_

_Out._

_Mr. Todd, please…_

_Out._

_Mr. Todd…_

_OOOUT!!_

He shook himself – telling himself to stop being so ridiculous. There was nothing the same about Mr. Todd's dark temper and his Johanna's.

"Johanna, you should eat –"

She interrupted him, her words a venomous hiss as she walked the room ferociously, "Oh, doubt poor Johanna's word, she's as crazy as her mother! Poor, poor Johanna!"

This was the first time she had ever mentioned her mother and Anthony stood back up slowly, "Johanna…"

But she kept on muttering, "Oh no, don't let Johanna speak! Don't listen to her! Don't believe her! Nothing she says is of consequence! If you pay too much attention to her words it will encourage her to be just like her mother! No, no, we mustn't have that!"

"Johanna, dear…" could she even hear him? Could she even see him? Her muttering raised in volume till she was shrieking, and while he was concerned at what was happening he was also aware that it would not do well for her yelling to advertise to the other occupants of the inn that he had in fact a woman in his room and not a young man. Then there would be questions...

_"Don't tell me what I did or did not see! You weren't there! I know what I saw was real!" _

Anthony started to move over to her to reassure her but she sprung away from him nimbly, and she began to pull at her hair fretfully, "I'm not crazy! I'm not crazy! I'm not like my Mother! He said it was in my nature, that only he could stop it! Don't send me back to Bedlam! I'm not crazy! I know what I saw! I did not hallucinate it!"

What on earth had the poor girl had to live with? What had she been told? What had she been made to believe? All hesitation from before fell away and Anthony moved over to her, taking her in his arms tightly. She clung to him – something he did not expect she would do so easily – and began muttering, "I did not dream you did I? You're real aren't you? I'm not still with Mr. Turpin? I hoped and I prayed that somebody would come for me, you _are _real, aren't you?"

He lowered them down to the wooden floor as he quietly told her of course he was, and he cradled her in his arms as she whimpered.

"Why do you mourn for him?" he could not help but ask gently, "He filled your life with so many lies…"

She shook her head vehemently, "They weren't all lies. Sometimes I fear he knew me more than I knew myself. My mother – he was good and kind to her, but she poisoned herself leaving me all by myself…Sometimes I think I'll damn myself too, like she did."

He stayed with her on the floor, holding her and saying nothing. What could he say to that? It would take so much hard work to undo all that weighed her down. All those filthy lies...

He did not like to leave her but he had to. It was his last bout of business he had to take care of. But then he would buy a kite and they would go out into the garden and he would teach her how to fly it – like he had taught his sister Penny. She had been five. Johanna was sixteen!

He shook his head to himself as he came down the stairs, rubbing his hands to make himself warmer. London was so bloody cold, how he longed for the Italian sun in times like these. He was walking through the tavern to make his way into the street, thinking far off thoughts when he nearly tripped over a foot that came out of nowhere. He stumbled and caught his balance, but he was hauled back and pain burst from his jaw when he was punched, and slammed to the wall by a dark haired man who held him firm and snapped – "Mr. Sanders at yehr service, yehr bleedin' little bastard, specialisin' in criminal law, an' damn good detective skills, if I may say so m'self. Glad to see we found each other finally. Now before I snap yehr delicate little neck, do kindly tell me where yeh've got Miss Johanna Barker!"


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter Seven._**

Anthony's hand jerked to his face in pain from the assault, but it would not be the last of it as the man's fist connected with his nose. He cried out as he felt warm blood trickling down and he tried to shove the man away from him, but he had Anthony pinned as he hissed, "Tell me where the girl is or I'll smash what little brain yeh have against this wall!"

_"Hey!"_

A sharp voice came from the bar and the barmaid came striding over. She was in her early twenties but there was nothing of the innocence of youth in her rigid demeanour. Her auburn hair was pinned up in a loose bun, a few curls escaped down her shoulders. Her hands were firmly on her hips as she stared at them both and her eyes – beautiful brown eyes which should look soft on a woman, looked almost molten at this point. The tavern had at once turned quiet in this sudden and abrupt altercation and Anthony seemed to shrink at this unwanted attention. Lord, all he had wanted to do was to remain anonymous until he could leave London! To blend in and not make too much fuss.

The barmaid looked around her as she noticed the rapid silence and she clapped her hands together – Anthony noticed the odd touch of femininity in this almost Amazonian warrior in her black fingerless gloves of lace she wore – her voice like a blade as she said to her staring patrons, "Alright you lazy buggers, there's nothin' to see here. Go back to your own business," and when she was satisfied they had obeyed her, she turned to Anthony and the stranger, her voice quiet and dangerous, "Alright, what the devil is going on here, frightenin' everybody like this so early in the mornin'? You!" she pointed at Anthony, "You've never given me trouble before, what's this all about?" she then turned to the stranger, "He's a harmless sod, so if you continue giving him trouble you'll be the one thrown out on your rear, you hear? I don't care who started what, who owes who money or who took who's wife to bed, you either sort this out like _gentlemen_ or you take it to the streets. Or if my friend _doesn't_ want to sort this out with you, I'll throw you out myself!"

Mr. Sanders looked at her – a mix of amusement and disparagement in his sharp blue eyes, and with a fancy flourish of his hand he bowed at her, "Forgive me pretty girl, there'll be no more trouble – at least not on my account. How about yeh dish out a nice, hot plate of food for me, hmm?"

The young woman looked at Anthony, raising her brow, "What do you say? Are you alright? I could throw him out if it suits you."

"No, no, that won't be necessary!" Mr. Sanders laughed, clapping Anthony's back heartily, "Unless the lad wants the coppers to come and help resolve this?"

The barmaid looked troubled at this and looked pityingly at Anthony who said quietly, his innards chilled to the core, "No thank you Dora, I'll be fine…"

_"Laura," _she corrected but nodded her head, "Very well…" she then went back to behind the bar, but watched them as she continued serving the others.

Now that Anthony could get a proper look of the man without being attacked, he looked him over. He was well dressed – with a long dresscoat of sable that boasted shiny silver buttons and reached his knees. Polished boots poked out from under the well fitted trousers, and on his head he wore a top hat, dark curls spilling underneath and shaping around his heart-shaped face. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Most women would find him quite handsome - this perhaps being marred slightly by his most obvious trait - his left eye was covered with a black eyepatch.

"Don't think that because yeh little tart over there decided to come to yeh rescue, yeh're all safe now," he murmured, "Let's find a table and sit down. Yeh're going to tell me where Miss Barker is."

Anthony obeyed silently and sat down at a table, Mr. Sanders sitting opposite himself. In a moment Laura came over with the plate he had ordered and flounced off again. Anthony watched the man eat the bacon and eggs, visibly surprised that the cooking was "half edible" – he called out his commendation to Laura, who ignored him except with a slight nod of the head.

"I don't know who Miss Barker is," Anthony lied calmly, "And since you have assaulted me for no reason, it would be wise of you to take leave the moment you have finished your breakfast or I will go to the police."

It was a daft threat and obviously a bluff because Mr. Sanders sat back in his chair, eyed Anthony for a moment and laughed with gusto, even pounding the table with his fist merrily, "Oh, yeh're an amusin' lad, that's for sure," he said and laughed some more, "Oh, come, come, continue – tell me what yeh'll do when the coppers do come and I am able to tell them just _who _yeh're hidin' away. And then watch as they rip this place apart, brick by brick to find her and take her from yeh for good. And believe me, they _will_ _rip this place apart _if there's even the slightest suspicion she's here. This case is one of the most important ones we've had in years. All those top coppers and divine gods of the law – they don' like when a Judge of his standin' is found in his own pool of piss and blood. No, no young man, yeh know why? B'cause they're all corrupt and it reminds them all too painfully of their own humble mortality. So go on, throw some more pretty threats at me. See where it gets yeh! I don' think our fiery little Laura there will be too fond of yeh after her uh – _respectable establishment _is examined. All taverns around here have secrets."

Anthony stared at him, suddenly feeling sick. The contents of his stomach seemed to suddenly stick to his gut, and he closed his eyes in desperation as he tried to think what to do.

"She's not here," he thought the man would be satisfied by that – by at least acknowledging she was _somewhere. _This way he could buy time and decide what he should do, "But what do you want?"

"I want to help her," his eyes darkened as Anthony laughed at that, "Shut yeh face yeh insubordinate brat! She needs my help. Do yeh realise how much trouble yeh'll be in if yeh're found? Stupid, _stupid _boy! Running from the law! This isn't some stupid petty case of stealin' a pretty trinket, this is the _murder _of bleedin' Judge bleedin' Turpin!"

"But we didn't _do_ anything!" Anthony spluttered in panic, leaning forward, "You have to believe me! We were just at the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all!"

"Doesn' bleedin' matter! Don't you understan' yet? Turpin's pretty little ward vanishin' right after somethin' like this happenin'? And _yeh _– yes, yeh! They found out that yeh're the one who brought such filth to London! Have yeh been readin' the papers? Don' you know what he's done?" he leant forward to Anthony, "And let me tell yeh, boy, the worst rumour yeh've heard is a lovely fairytale compared to the truth. It's much bigger than the murder of a Judge…They're callin' him the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, though, I think that's far too kind. A demon is just a minion, and he ain't no bleedin' minion. He was the honourable _Lucifer_, in the flesh."

Anthony really did feel sick now as he buried his head in his hands, shaking. This was all a bad, twisted nightmare. He would wake up and he would be on his ship and Mr. Todd would just be the mysterious stranger he saved. And they would have discussions as they watched the sea underneath them. Trivial discussions that any pair of men would have. This was all a nightmare…

Who _were _you?

What dark plague had _he _been responsible for, bringing to London?


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you BeBopALula and Lost-Blue-Phantom! Your reviews mean a lot!

Wow, thank you so much Ravencaller! Your words are very kind. Oh, with something you said, feel free to correct me on future grammar mistakes - I know you said it was flawless, but that must be a fluke because I'm not the best at that...Thank you so much...That's all I can really say. Oh, and I suppose I'll read the novel, haha. I find it funny that two people compared it to the book...And I've never even read it. Thank you!

Just a note to say, I edited a little of the previous chapter. Just a tiny bit, a description of Sanders - he has an eyepatch. I wanted to write it in before, changed my mind, but then I decided to just do it.

Yes, it's short. I could have done it longer, but I liked it as it was. More soon.

Thanks again to those who reviewed.

* * *

**_Chapter Eight._**

Mr. Sanders allowed poor Anthony to have a few moments to compose himself. It wasn't easy. The boy was wretched with such sorrow and guilt that he pitied him. The boy's face looked physically ill and he looked as pale as a ghost as his mind mulled over dark thoughts, while he covered his mouth with his hand and tried to calm his terrible shaking. Well..._Almost _pitied him - he remembered that the _idiot _had cost him so much already. And that he could cost Miss Johanna more if things did not move quickly.

"Come on boy," he made sure his voice was still unyielding and firm with no trace of any weak emotion, "We need to move fast. Where is the girl?"

But the boy would not move, his voice broken as he muttered, "_I_ brought him here…_I_ was responsible for Mr. Todd. People have died because _I_ brought him to London."

"Yes," Mr. Sanders said bluntly and stood, "That is why we need to hurry. I know – well at least I don't _think_ - yeh were involved…It takes a foul mind to be involved in such abominable things. Yeh're an idiot, yeh're naïve, yeh should have been born a woman judging from your delicate frame o' mind, but from what I can gather, yeh're not evil. I'll help yeh as well as Miss Johanna, but for God's sake, we need _to move!"_

He took a hold of Anthony's coat lapel and hauled him up, but then saw Laura still watching sharply from behind the bar and he smiled widely at the pretty broad, politely returning his empty plate and cutlery to her. He murmured some gratitude and then went back to Anthony, clapping his back as if they were old friends to placate the witch (who still didn't change her expression) and started pushing him towards the stairs that lead up to the inn, "Alright boy, which room is she in?"

"But – but I said she wasn't here," he tried to say feebly.

"Yes, yeh did, which reminds me –" he struck the back of the boy's head with his hand, "- Don' ever lie to me again, yeh hear? Yeh're bad at it as it is. And I'm a lawyer…Call it the art of my trade to sift the truth from lies. Now _which room?"_

To Mr. Sanders extreme annoyance the boy stopped right then and there, unable to be moved. He turned to him slowly, looking him straight in the eye, "How do I know you can be trusted? You say you're going to help us…I still don't really even know why a man such as yourself would even bother."

Mr. Sanders looked at Anthony for a moment, then said raising a brow, "Let me put it this way – Mr. Hope isn' it? Do yeh know how I came to know yehr name?"

Anthony said nothing.

"It's because yeh're one of the _prime_ suspects. Miss Johanna, there's suspicion lying around her too being _involved_ anyway, and that's why I'm here to help, but yehr own shit stinks far worse – to put it crassly. It has been discovered as I have already stated that yeh brought him in to the city. Eyewitness accounts have revealed yeh going to visit him on occasion. Everybody knows how well caged pretty Miss Johanna was and how much Turpin - may his soul rot in hell - guarded her like some valuable art piece in a locked cabinet. Yeh made it no secret yeh fancied the lass – people saw yeh pining away on her street looking at her window. They're after yeh boy. Like a dog high on bloodlust, I hate to say. If yeh had gone out today, yeh would find yehr pretty boat confiscated. They're waiting for yeh to return to it…It's all very philosophical if yeh like to think of it in that manner. Sure it was the barber that did all the killin', but yeh had motivation to be involved…And they need a – what's the word…Not really a scapegoat – though they need a scapegoat too – an _example. _That's the word. They need yeh as a fine example, to all the other rotten peasants out there. The barber is dead, they need to punish _somebody - _and the child involved, nope, not good enough, people pity children and a wee thing like him couldn' have done it all by himself. They need to show what happens to those who dare to murder such high authority. To keep the people in their place. And it don' hurt to have a pretty victim like Miss Johanna to finish off the performance neither. Poor, beautiful, golden haired Miss Barker, whisked away from her home and all she knew, falling for honeyed lies and a handsome face with promises of adventure – not aware that her dear guardian had been brutally murdered in a dastardly plot due to her womanly weakness. And that would be the end of the story. People would listen, people would believe, the lesson would be learned and all those men of power can sleep soundly once again in their beds knowin' that the masses won't move out o' their place in society. O' course, that could just be my natural cynicism…" he paused, to allow this all to sink in for the boy but then added, "Think about it this way, lad…I'm the best _hope _yeh've got…And God forgive me for using such a terrible pun."

Anthony lowered his gaze from Mr. Sanders, concealing his thoughts and turned back. And as a man walking to his gallows - still uncertain but knowing he had no other option, he led him to the room he was staying in with Johanna.

Anthony opened the door slightly and poked his head in a bit, saying quietly, "Johanna, don't be alarmed, there's a man –"

He cried out as Mr. Sanders rolled his eyes and shoved him hard out of the way. He then stepped in the room.

Johanna turned, her eyes widening in startlement as she saw who was at the door. She sprung to her feet, her embroidery she had been examining falling to the floor.

"Johanna, don't be alarmed –" Anthony repeated again but stopped at her odd reaction.

The girl could not speak and she started to fidget, as if embarrassed by the breeches and shirt she wore. She took the cap off her head, letting her golden hair fall down her back, as if she was trying to improve her appearance.

The rough exterior of the stranger that Anthony had been used to melted, and he laughed gently. _Tenderly. _Anthony looked at him accusingly, though he was not certain just what he was accusing him of, only that this was an unexpected reception.

"Miss Barker…Whatever are yeh wearing?" his voice was soft, and he smiled at her.

"I…I…"

"It's alright dear," the man said stepping forward a little, "He's dead…He can't hurt yeh any longer."

Anthony had said almost the exact same sentence before and had been met with resentment and he looked at Johanna startled as she began to weep, then as fast as she could she raced over to Mr. Sanders, crying out "Dane!" and threw her arms around him. Mr. Sanders entwined his arms around Johanna as well, not holding in his tears and both clung to each other tightly.

And all Anthony could do was stand there, perplexed.


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you Lost-Blue-Phantom and Vicki! Thanks for the tip Lost-Blue-Phantom and you're right about that chunk of paragraph, and Vicki, haha, I can't help but pick on him...I love him to bits and just want to give him a pat on the head, but it's so easy to throw in those jabs.

Enjoy. And reviews would be lovely everyone..

* * *

**_Chapter Nine._**

The embrace lasted longer than what Anthony could tolerate. He cleared his throat nervously, which must have brought the two back to the present, as Johanna began to release Mr. Sanders. But the man held her tightly for one more moment, before drawing her back gently, her arms still in his light grasp. She giggled at his face and gently wiped the stray tears from his cheeks with her fingers and Anthony had to steer his face away, so steeled with an irrational bout of jealousy at such a personal touch that he was ashamed. He moved over to the window, forcing himself to stop being such a downright fool. He had brought a _murderer_ into London; there were far more important things to be concerned about than this. Not to mention he had no right to disapprove of Johanna embracing a friend. He had not freed her simply to cage her again. He chewed his lip with trepidation but then turned back to them after making up his mind that he would…Well…Show some respect and conceal his resentment. Mr. Sanders wanted to help them after all and any friend of Johanna's was a _f_ – was a _fr_ – was a _friend_ of…Anthony could not finish that sentence in his head. But no matter, he was _trying_ and that counted.

Mr. Sanders removed his top hat (_hmmph, _he _finally_ remembered the required propriety in front of a woman, Anthony thought) and bent down, placing a kiss on Johanna's forehead, "I am so glad yeh are safe Jo," he said, "Yeh gave me such a fright when everythin' happened and there was no sign of yeh."

Anthony's face twitched involuntarily. That face Mr. Sanders thought he had the _right _to touch as if it belonged to any charwoman when _he himself_ had only had the nerve to kiss her hair once. _For God's sake Anthony! _He reprimanded himself harshly, but could not help his last thought – _and her name is _Johanna_…It is a_ lovely _name…Not a_ common _label like Jo._

While Johanna's back was still turned to him as she was looking at Mr. Sanders, Anthony was quite pleased with himself as he smiled with friendliness at the man. He still kept on the smile as Johanna turned to him, Mr. Sanders returning the smile with zest.

_There, _Anthony thought, _that wasn't hard now, was it?_

But when Mr. Sanders was no longer visible to her, the smile turned into a smirk and Anthony had to stop the paranoia and anger from bubbling forth.

"Anthony, this is Mr. Sanders, he –" Johanna began excitedly, but her tone faded when she saw the blood on Anthony's face and she rushed over to him, at once concerned.

Her gentle hands cupped his face, "Oh my! What on earth happened?"

"Nothing, nothing…" Anthony thought he was quite diplomatic about it actually, given the situation, "There was only a _misunderstanding _downstairs."

Johanna looked at him confused, then as she realised what he meant she turned on the friend she had once greeted so warmly, "You hurt him!" she accused angrily.

Mr. Sanders shrugged, ignoring the smug look Anthony returned to him now that Johanna wasn't looking at him, "I didn' hurt him…Well not _much_…I was worried about yeh, Jo."

Johanna glared at him, then went about looking for a handkerchief. When she found one she rushed over to Anthony and bade him seat himself at the table. Her hand gently combed his hair as she wiped away the blood gently with the handkerchief and he felt a tingle rush through him at her touch and her visible concern for him.

"Are you in very much pain?" she asked him quietly.

"No…No, I'm alright," he answered bravely, and she gave him a rare smile. Oh if he had known she would do _that_, he would have endured a far worse beating for such a reward.

But she then turned to Mr. Sanders quite perturbed, "I demand you apologise at once Dane! I know you were worried about me but that is no excuse. Anthony has been nothing but good and kind to me."

Mr. Sanders stood where he was and for a moment there was tension in the room as he examined Anthony thoughtfully. Then he moved forward with an unreadable expression and for a moment Anthony was tempted to stand from his seat and move away quickly. But he was Johanna's friend and he should give proper respect and…Maybe she would smile at him again…

Mr. Sanders slowly placed his hat onto the table, and removed his riding gloves which joined the hat. He stared at Anthony for one more moment and the eyepatch covering his other eye sent agitation through Anthony. It was foolish, but it was as if the dark blue eye Anthony and the world could see was revealing only what Johanna wanted to see and his hidden eye was holding his true feelings.

Mr. Sanders held out his hand and said with all the sincerity Johanna would be happy to hear, "Forgive me, lad."

Anthony took his hand and they shook as Mr. Sanders bowed. It looked as if that would be the best apology he would receive, but, no matter. Even if he had given a flowery in-depth apology it would not erase the uncertainty he felt about him.

Anthony nodded, then asked, "Dane, is it?"

"Ah, call me Sanders, lad. Everybody does."

Obviously _everybody_ did not include Johanna, but Anthony nodded nonetheless, "As you wish."

Johanna looked pleased that they both seemed to have put aside any differences, and she smiled, "Dane, how on earth did you find me?"

"It wasn' that hard to be honest, but we have more important things to be talkin' about," Sanders paused thoughtfully, "Jo dear, we must go to the coppers."

Anthony stood at once when she backed away, shaking her head profusely, "No, _no!_ I'm not going! They'll twist what happened, I know they will!"

Anthony shoved Sanders away who had tried to approach her and he instead moved up quickly, taking her by the arms gently, "Johanna – there is no choice…Believe me, I've racked my own mind and Sanders speaks sense. If we run now –"

"They'll catch yeh," Sanders intervened.

Anthony turned his face to him for one moment as he spoke, glowering, "Yes, _thank you Sanders," _then he turned to Johanna, "They could catch us. And we'll be in worse trouble. We're innocent, yes?"

He waited for Johanna to nod slightly, then continued, "Then we have nothing to fear. We'll be safe. Sanders here says he'll represent us. He'll help us. I would rather be brave and have our names cleared, because then we won't have to hide all our lives. I want to introduce you to my family without fear somebody is watching us. We should have gone to the police firstly instead of running, but that was my fault. I was afraid. If we run, they'll twist everything worse won't they? Johanna, we must return…We're innocent after all."

Johanna gazed at him, her hand reaching up and stroking his neck with her thumb and forefinger, then sighed, "Oh Anthony, you're so naïve."

Anthony began to say something but Sanders beat him to it, "Be that as it may Jo, the lad is right. With me yeh know I'll win. Yeh know yeh'll be safe with me."

Johanna lowered her head in thought, still stroking Anthony's neck absentmindedly, "They call you the Maverick, Dane…You've been thrown out of court countless times for contempt."

"Ah," Sanders smiled at this quite proudly, "Yeh forget though. They call me the _Silver-Tongued _Maverick. Yeh have to love the press."

Anthony turned to face him in disbelief as something dawned on him, _"You're '_Silver-Tongued Sanders'?"

Sanders pulled a face, "I prefer the Silver-Tongued Maverick to that title. Alliteration looks rather childish in newspapers in my humble opinion."

"But…But…I thought you would be _ancient!"_ Anthony could not help but say in shock, "You were in the papers in France! How you won that case involving the banks! You don't look older than thirty five!"

"Thirty three," Sanders replied crisply, "And remember, Christ saved all of mankind by that age."

All Anthony could do was stare as he looked upon a living legend. But Johanna was not so impressed as she said tiredly, "You've been barred from court in a suspension…"

"Jo, dear Jo, how yeh underestimate me –" he began.

But she interrupted him, "You threatened Judge Turpin!"

Sanders shrugged at this, "It was only a _little _threat…Anyway, I'm surprised yeh know all that…"

"I _heard_ things," she said defiantly, "I'm not completely ignorant…You're asking me to walk to the executioner's block and you can't even help me!"

"I _can _help yeh. Yeh know I have the Midas Touch when it comes to the law. Yeh know that suspension is horsesh –" he forced himself to stop, closed his eyes for a moment to calm himself, then continued " –_rubbish! _Yeh _know_ it's rubbish. Yeh know I can convince them to lift the suspension. For God's sake I'm the only hope yeh have. I'll not allow yeh to run off with this sod and get hunted down. I'll not have yeh or him thrown into prison or _worse_, not when I can stop it. I'll haul yeh over my shoulder and take yeh to the coppers m'self before I let that happen! Trust me, yeh silly girl! Even yeh idiot companion here knows I speak the truth!"

Johanna's eyes turned to Anthony as a last resort, "Anthony…I don't know what to do…They'll take me away from you, I know it. They'll lock me away…" she grabbed his arm desperately, "You won't let that happen to me, will you?"

"Johanna, you trust me don't you?" he asked simply.

She shook her head in despair, "Anthony it isn't as simple a matter as _trust."_

"You know how much I've done for you, and how much further I will go to make sure you are safe…You won't be locked away again, I swear," Anthony tried to press upon the importance of this, "They've taken my ship, Johanna…How will I take care of you without my livelihood?"

"They've taken your ship…?" Johanna's voice wavered, "But that means – if we run – you won't be able to sail again. Your name would be blacklisted with any respectable ship."

Anthony smiled sadly, "I wouldn't care if it meant we were safe," he was surprised himself as he said that and for the first time it really hit him the _depth _he felt for Johanna. He had always thought he knew he loved her, but to say it and _know_ how much he meant that he would give up the ocean _for her _made him blink, "But I don't think we ever will be. For the rest of our lives we will always be looking over our shoulders."

Johanna pulled away from him and paced for a little while in thought. She then sighed deeply, "Well, I can't go to the police wearing men's clothes…I would have to look innocent, wouldn't I? To garner pity…"

Sanders clapped and laughed at that comment, "Smart girl! Manipulate the rogues!" and while Anthony was pleased she had finally trusted him with this, he was rather surprised and taken aback at that shrewd observation from his Johanna…

"Yeh'll have to stay here, Jo, while I purchase a gown," Sanders was saying.

But Anthony interrupted him, "_I'll _pay for any purchases today. I'm not as recognisable in London as Johanna - they'll all be looking for a golden haired girl...I'll be safe if there is no fuss," then he made his voice sound light as he looked at her, "I have five sisters. Don't worry, I'll choose something pretty. They taught me well."

Johanna nodded and embraced him, then squeezed Sander's hand.

Anthony and Sanders both left the room, closing the door. They began walking until they reached the stairs until Anthony asked, "Just how _do _you know Johanna Barker, Sanders?"

Sanders waved his hand dismissively at the question, "I'll explain that later, but now more important things need to be discussed," he paused and lowered his voice, saying quietly as he took Anthony's arm, "Look boy…There's something yeh need to know. Lawyers are as good as journalists at digging up dirt…And yeh need to know something concerning her past and how she came to be bleedin Judge Turpin's ward."


	10. Chapter 10

Oh. My. Gosh. I don't think I'll ever be able to write again. I seriously just spent four hours writing this...Never, ever again. Haha. I'm sorry, I went on a bit of a tangent in this chappity chap..Yeah, so much for my uncomplicated fluff story, haha..That always happens to me..

Thank you so much to Ravencaller, Lost Blue Phantom, BeBopALula, Vicki and xxlindazzz. Seriously, you don't know it but it's your reviews that make me continue on. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Haha, glad you're all liking this. Noelle gave me a slight idea which I changed quite a bit in this chapter (the beatle was her thing too), so thanks Noelle my dear and blame Vicki for me even starting this story. I'd made up my mind I'd finished fanfiction altogether till we met up for coffee and cake and started talking about Sweeney..

Just a note - "lickspittle" is the 1840s term for arse kisser. Yes...I am a history geek who spends far too much time researching things...

And now I'm going to sleep.

* * *

**_Chapter Ten._**

"Yes, please tell me how Johanna came to be with the Judge," Anthony said and explained what little he knew, "She told me that her mother…Had gone mad…I don't know much about her father. I'm assuming the Judge adopted her, but I don't know why."

"Mmm," Sanders said thoughtfully, "There's a lot more to it than that boy. A lot more. The great Judge Turpin was never a simple philanthropist. He would not have simply adopted the girl out of the goodness of his heart. I can only guess at his original motives, but there is an interesting history, there is," he gestured for Anthony to walk first down the stairs, "I will explain in a minute, though first I think we should sit down."

Dane Sanders' thoughts drifted back to the first time he had had the privilege to be a guest at Judge Turpin's house, and a collection of other memories that concerned Miss Barker.

* * *

There was something about him that the Judge liked, he had been told by Beadle Bamford (privately he called the slimy cretin the _Beatle, _loathing the way he crawled all over the Judge, doing his bidding as eagerly as a stray cur would to somebody who gave it a shred of food) as he escorted him to the house for the first time many years ago. Judge Turpin - the Beatle continued to say - had been impressed with the young lawyer's performance in court the previous week.

"That's interestin'," Sanders had sniffed, "Because I lost the case."

"Be that as it may," the Beadle replied with a sickening smile, "Judge Turpin believes you have a _bright_ future ahead of you. He said the way you spoke, so _eloquently_, so _passionately – _one could almost suppose you believed the unfortunate man you were defending."

Sanders continued walking, lighting a cigarette but not offering the Beatle one, "That's because I _did_. The Judge was wrong to declare him guilty. I shall tell him that m'self when we arrive. My client wasn't involved with the thieves, only a dunce would ever think such a thing."

The Beatle laughed, however unconvincingly, and looked uncertain at Sanders. But Sanders didn't care. Yes, his career involved smiling at the right people and making the appropriate connections, but he would never be a lickspittle.

Soon they had arrived at the Judge's house where the Beatle directed him to the drawing room in the rear of the house. He was told to pour himself a drink and to make himself at home. The Judge would only be a few minutes. When the Beatle crawled off to do whatever else he was supposed to do and Sanders was left alone, he surveyed the room and whistled quietly at the prosperity. So this is what happens when one reaches the peak of one's career.

The carpet under his boots was a striking blue and the table in the corner was of a rich golden-brown mahogany. There was a mirror framed with the same wood atop a marble fireplace and all over the walls were hunting portraits. A bale of Chinese patterned silk were the curtains, and beside the window was a fine antique Bornholm clock. Sanders nodded to himself; one day he would be this successful. He poured himself a drink from a circular drink cabinet that was in the shape of a globe decorated with Columbus's map. This intrigued him and he spent a moment examining it and opening it and closing it several times. After this amusement ebbed away he glanced out of the French doors which led to a small terrace outside. After awhile he moved over to the fireside chair and stared at the small pianoforte on the other side of the room, that was a light green colour decorated with magnificent painted roses.

That must have cost a pretty penny, Sanders thought as he sipped at his drink, was it imported from Paris? He had thought that the Judge was unmarried and it made him curious as to why he would have that feminine touch when everything else in the room was so obviously masculine.

At first he had not noticed that he was being watched, but after a moment his eyes noticed a flash of gold at the entrance he had come in with the Beatle. He turned and saw a young girl – perhaps around six years of age? – staring at him curiously. She hid behind the doorway when she noticed she had been discovered and Sanders laughed gently, "Come out child, I won't hurt yeh, I promise."

A little girl wearing a burgundy coloured silk frock, with eye-catching gold hair stepped out when she realised she had been caught and there was no use hiding, and both the child and he stared at each other.

"What is yeh name, child?" he asked her quietly.

"Johanna," she seemed to squeak, as if she wasn't sure whether she should talk.

"Johanna," Sanders mused aloud, "Seems a pretty big name for such a wee thing as yeh. May I call yeh Jo?"

"Nobody's ever called me Jo before," she answered timidly, but seemed pleased nonetheless, "But I like it. Can it be a secret? I don't think Mr. Turpin would find it proper."

Sanders put a finger to his lips, "I won't tell a soul. Yeh can call me Dane too. Nobody calls me that either. None except my Mother – and that's only when I'm in trouble. But it seems only fair, don't it, if I call yeh Jo?"

From upstairs came the sound of footsteps approaching the stairs and little Johanna jumped, saying "Please don't tell him!" and she turned and fled. She never specified what exactly she had meant, but Dane Sanders understood. And he pitied the lonely looking girl.

That was not the only secret they shared between them. He decided to build a friendship with the child – knowing himself how lonesome it could be, being an only child. But after he had developed an acquaintanceship with the Judge Turpin he realised that would be a difficult pursuit indeed. It was as if she was kept under lock and key and whenever Sanders asked after his little ward it was always answered with a touch of surprise, as if it were abnormal to show so much curiosity.

So Sanders ceased asking about her. But he could not stop thinking about that small girl he had met. His little Jo. So he made excuses to come see the Judge over certain cases. Judge Turpin was quite pleased with this arrangement, thinking he was somehow mentoring the young lawyer into a prosperous career. A load of codswallop really. Sanders made his own destiny. His successes were his own, just as his losses were too. But he came and visited just to catch a glimpse of the child.

It could not be as regular as he liked – of course the Judge could not be seen to be favouring anybody in the court – but little Jo Barker grew up with his offered smiles as she hid in the stair railings when he passed through the entrance of the house to the Judge's study, with small trinkets he smuggled to her through the servants who pitied the child too, with a warm sentence or two when it would not rouse suspicion, with a tune he whistled just for her as he passed through, or a silly skip in his step to incite a small giggle from her. He would often feign waiting for the Judge while reading a book by sitting on the public bench outside of the home and occasionally look up at her. She would always be staring down at him as if she knew he was there for her, and she knew he wanted to keep her company even if there was a distance between them. They had formed a strange, secret little friendship.

That was until the day he found out little Jo Barker was ill. She was not a small child anymore, but on the cusp of early womanhood being twelve. She was so ill it was feared she was dying. The Judge himself took time off from his court duties to watch her, and rumours had it that he was so seized with panic he had dismissed several physicians in his fear that he could lose his little ward. Sanders heard from the household servants that he barely ate or slept. All he would do was pace the hallways and sit by Johanna's bedside as she slowly slipped away from him.

This behaviour from the Judge interested Sanders. Perhaps he had misjudged him.

It was understandable to show concern for an associate's loved one so he did not feel much anxiety at visiting the place with a gift for the ailing patient. The maid took him up to Johanna's room where she said the Judge barely left.

Turpin met him at the door, a little surprised but touched at the unexpected visit.

"Sanders," Turpin greeted him with astonishment.

"I heard the little one had taken ill. Johanna is her name, isn' it?" he made sure not to sound too familiar or to look at her too much and to show the proper amount of care he should – no more, no less, and he lifted the covered cage he had brought as the gift, "That's a pity. It's no fun being sick. I brought her a present, I did, to cheer her up."

"Oh, that's very kind of you," Turpin took his arm and drew him into the room, "Very kind of you indeed. What do you say Johanna, to Mr. Sanders?"

Sanders looked at the girl – so slight underneath the mass of sheets and blankets that it alarmed him. And she was so _pale_ – her face nearly as white as the bandage around her arm where she had been bled by the physician. Her gold hair fanned over the pillow, and she turned her face to him weakly, barely registering at all that she had a visitor, and mumbled almost inaudibly a thank you as she had been told to do.

He moved forward a little, and he would never forget that look in her cornflower blue eyes. It was as if she had given up. He could have cried for his sweet little angel.

There was an awkward silence until Turpin said he would go to his study and bring back some paperwork to discuss with him. Sanders nodded as the Judge left, but he did not care at all, and went to her bedside. He placed the cage on the stand and bent down, "Hello little Jo," was all he could muster. She did not reply, nor give him a smile.

"I brought yeh a present," he tried to say lightly, "Now I know yeh must have a treasure trove of toys, so I brought yeh somethin' special."

Her eyes fell on the covered cage with no animation. She knew what it was he brought.

"Are yeh well enough to be moved just a little bit Jo?" he asked, "It won't be for long and I think yeh'll like it."

She closed her eyes, but managed to say weakly, "I'm so tired. You'll have to carry me."

He nodded, peeling the blankets off her and bent down, picking the girl up in his arms. Lord, but she was feather light!

"Are yeh alright? Yeh're not feeling dizzy, lass?" he asked concerned and she murmured that she was fine enough.

He slowly moved over to the window seat, and placed her down on the cushions. Then he rushed back and brought the concealed caged over, sitting beside her. He removed the covering, showing a small white pigeon. Johanna looked at it dully, then looked at him.

He smiled, "We have to be quick," he murmured as he opened the window, "Before Mr. Turpin returns."

_Now _Johanna was interested.

He opened the little cage door and with his hands brought out the pigeon gently. He calmed the creature by gently stroking it and placed it in Johanna's hands, "Would yeh like to release him?" he asked quietly.

"Release him?" she echoed confused.

"Oh, yes. It's not nice to cage birds forever. They're free creatures, don't yeh know? And this…This is a special bird…Yeh know why?" he asked.

She shook her head.

Sanders turned to the door quickly and after checking that nobody was appearing he took from his coat pocket a very small tube and he took the bird's leg and gently attached it.

"Genghis Khan," he explained quietly, "Was the ruler of Mongolia hundreds of years ago. He used birds to send messages far away – even eighteen hundred kilometers away sometimes! And the birds always came back to their home, after sending a message. Nobody knows how they learn, but they're very smart. Now, our little friend here, he won' have to travel as far as Genghis Khan's birds. I live in the same city. When we let him go he'll return to my little house, as he's been trained. And I'll write yeh a letter, very small – on cigarette paper – and send it back when yeh're all better. Would yeh like that?"

The little girl looked so torn as she held the bird in her arms, "They say I won't get better…"

He sat beside her raising a brow, "Now, we both know that's horseshit," she giggled at his profanity, but he continued, "Yeh're a delicate little thing, but yeh have strength. _I_ know that. _Yeh_ know that. _Don't_ _yeh?"_

She looked down at the bird sadly, "I don't feel strong, Dane…I wish I was like this bird, where I could fly wherever I want."

"Yeh will be – Jo – yeh may think yeh're trapped in this place but there is a huge world out there to be discovered," he paused, "And don't yeh like the idea of yehr thoughts travelling through the skies of London to find me? It'll be _our _secret. Yeh like secrets, yes?"

She looked at the bird, then at Sanders longingly. It caught him off guard then that the child was deciding whether to surrender to death or live.

Finally she said to him, "Our secret? Only ours?"

"Of course my dear Jo," he answered quietly.

She brought the bird to her lips and kissed it gently, then said with excitement, "Can we call him Figaro? There's an Italian opera _the Marriage of Figaro_ playing at the theatre I've heard – and I do wish I could see it…"

"Figaro he is then," Sanders said getting a little nervous as he heard footsteps approaching, "Now release him!"

Johanna leant to the window and laughed girlishly as she thrust the bird out into freedom, calling out "Goodbye, goodbye little friend!"

Judge Turpin entered in a moment, shocked to see the following scene.

Sanders explained the empty cage by saying regretfully, "He flew away – I took him out for the child to see and he escaped…What a shame…"

Turpin eyed the excited Johanna suspiciously. She did not seem at all to be upset by her new pet disappearing. He walked over and carried her back to bed, her eyes still glued to the window as she was placed back under the sheets.

"Never mind, Johanna," Turpin said to her, "We'll buy you another bird."

That was the last time he spoke to Johanna face to face. Something had changed, something had shifted between the relationship of Sanders and the Judge. Turpin opted to meet him outside the house more and more. And what could Sanders do? It didn't matter much though, as Figaro helped in keeping communication. The small letters were never long, in fact mostly they were little riddles they sent to each other to try and figure out, or amusing quips or proverbs. Just two or three small lines. But that was enough. It was a lifeline for his little Jo, that her secret thoughts could fly and be accepted by another. By a friend.

Sanders could see she was watched like a hawk as she grew into a young woman and it didn't take him long to realise why. And it sickened him. The Judge was grooming his innocent young ward to be his eventual bride. She was no more than a _child. _Had this always been the plan?

Oh, he never did anything sordid. He educated her, clothed her, showered her with gifts, raised her in luxury. But she was no more than a prized mare.

Sanders was a lawyer. Research was a part of his occupation. It had always intrigued him just how Johanna Barker became Turpin's adopted ward, and the more he dug into that past the more frightened for the girl's welfare he became. He looked over her available records, the court transcripts of her criminal father – there were so many flaws in the case of Benjamin Barker…_Why _would Judge Turpin be so interested in the wellbeing of the daughter of a criminal he had sent to the penal colony in the part of Australia known as Van Diemen's Land?

_Why?_

Sanders found his answer, and it shocked him to the core – the power the law had on ignorant people!

He shouldn't have gone. He knew that now, after the mess of Turpin's murder. He should have waited…But he had been so mad, so unbridled with rage about the injustice of it all. And how the young woman Johanna Barker was tangled in the web of control he now had _her _in.

She was sixteen now. And ripe for his taking. It disgusted Sanders, repulsed him. For God's sake, he couldn't live with himself knowing what Turpin had planned for the girl. To marry the only sorry excuse for a father figure she had ever known, because he had disposed of her natural one…

Sanders was thirty three. A respectable age. He had accumulated his own wealth in his own right over the many years he had now been a lawyer. And his talent had seen him win substantial cases – he was respected, even if his methods were unorthodox. He would marry the girl himself.

He remembered standing in the Judge's study that last time, feeling so much anger and righteousness he felt like laughing as he stared the old bastard down.

_"Marry my Johanna?" _the Judge had said, unbelievably shocked.

"Yes," Sanders replied confidently, "I'm wealthy, I can provide for her. I'm a good match. And I want a wife. Jo is accomplished, beautiful, clever – I'm asking for her hand in marriage."

"…Jo?"

_Shit, _Sanders could have cursed himself for bringing up such a familiar term. He corrected himself, "Miss Johanna."

The Judge stood and walked around to the front of his desk, staring at Sanders warily, "You above anybody else knows a thousand meanings can spring forth from just one word. You called my Johanna _Jo _as if you've had some sort of acquaintance with her…"

Sanders swallowed nervously but stared at him unperturbed, "I think yeh're imagining things sir. I did not mean anything by it."

"I think not," was all he would say on the matter, "I wish for you to leave my property."

"Leave yehr property?" Sanders retorted, "Why? I have done nothing wrong. I simply asked a question and I have not received an answer –"

Turpin hissed at him, "No! A thousand times no! How dare you come to me expecting you would be good enough for her!"

"I have as much right as any other man! And even more so, since I know yeh well and yeh trust me!"

_"Trust?"_ Turpin spat, "After all I have done for you in your career! I trusted you and you throw it back at me now by asking for such a preposterous thing far above your station and expecting me to gladly say yes! It's money isn't it? You believe when I die you'll gain it all!"

"Yeh paranoid old goat! I want to marry her because she'll make a suitable wife!" Sanders shouted back.

"Get out! Get off my property at once!"

The noise brought the snooping Beatle forward into the room, who looked bewildered at the scene of the Judge tearing down a trusted friend.

"Get him out Beadle! I never want to see him again near this place!"

Beadle went to take Sander's arm but Sander's shoved him off and lunged forward, hissing, "I've been doing my own sort of research on yeh Judge Turpin! And what are yeh going to do old man? Send me away on bullshit charges like yeh did to that Benjamin Barker all those years ago? Ah, yes, I know all about yehr past!"

There was silence. Beadle had dropped his arm in horror at what he just said and Turpin looked absolutely mortified as he spluttered "After _everything _I have done for you over the years –"

"Yeh have done _nothing _for me yeh arrogant joke! I worked myself to the bone to get to where I am today! And yeh know why yeh're a joke, Turpin? Because yeh have to _force _a beautiful young girl to be yehr bride! Yeh don't even have it in yeh to win her by giving her a choice!"

Turpin had managed to compose himself, as he snarled calmly this time, "Get off my property, before –"

"Would yeh like me to tell little Johanna just what yeh did to her poor father? And just what became of her moth –" Sanders continued.

"Remove yourself from this house at once."

"Yeh can't lawfully keep me away from Johanna! Yeh forget I'm a lawyer, I know the legalities of things! When she is of age – which she is now – she can do whatever she pleases! Why do yeh look so worried there Judge Turpin? I'm just a man she barely knows yet yeh look as if what I say concerns you! Why do yeh worry that she would rather marry a stranger than stay here with yeh?" by this time Sanders knew he was placing his head and career under the French execution instrument called a guillotine for his boldness, but at that moment he did not care in the slightest as he sneered, "And I don't think the law would be too pleased with yeh either. Yeh may have power with ignorant common people but yeh forget I'm rising in ranks too! I know my rights! Yeh can't erase me like that poor Barker sod! I'll forever be a stench on your boot yeh can't get rid of – as if yeh stepped into a pile of dog shit!"

_"For God's sake Beadle, get him out!"_

And that was the last contact he had with the honourable Judge Turpin before he was found, his throat slashed apart in the basement of Mrs. Lovett's Pie Emporium.

He had been a fool for his insubordination. Turpin announced his engagement to his ward a few days later _in order to shield her from the evils of this world. _In other words, in order to shield her from other potential suitors. From Sanders himself.

He had been suspended from court for threatening a judge. Not barred completely, for as much as Turpin may loathe him now, he knew Sanders was right. He had a reputation in his own right now. Turpin didn't fear for his own neck, as he was too far up the pecking order for Sanders to carry out his threat about revealing the flaws of the Barker case, but he could not stamp him out completely from London's courts…

And he could not stamp him out from pursuing Johanna. Engaged or not, he would still pursue her.

* * *

He was sitting at one of the tables in Laura's tavern waiting for a drink with the boy, staring absently as he wondered how on earth he would tell the boy Johanna's history.


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks Vicki, xxxlindazzz, Ravencaller and Lost-Blue-Phantom! Appreciate it all muchly!

Hehe, Vicks, you make me laugh.

xxxlindazzz, glad you love Sanders. Funny thing, I had a completely different person in my head for him but as soon as I started writing this rough guy came out and he wouldn't go away! And he's bloody changed the course of my story. Bloody Sanders.

You're right Ravencaller, that really wasn't the best chapter. I was really quite stressing out as I wanted that whole thing to be one chapter and I wanted it to be finished last night. I think I rushed it too much.

Glad you like the backstory Lost-Blue-Phantom.

Sorry, this isn't the best of chapters nor the longest, but I kind of want to delve into this character...It'll get better next chappity chap, promise.

Thank you all! Man, I ramble a lot before chapters, don't I? Somebody ought to tell me to just shut up and post the damn things...

:)

* * *

**_Chapter Eleven._**

Laura was watching as the two men returned from upstairs and seated themselves at a table. The younger one Mr. Hope looked fidgety and nervous and she felt a twinge of pity for him. Obviously he had been found out…What a shame, she hadn't even gotten to tell him she knew and wanted to help somehow. The older man, the stranger, looked at her and gestured for her to come to them. She gave him a look as if to say _in a minute you smarmy bugger_ and turned to drying some dishes.

Yes, she had known. From the start, that evening they had come in from outside rather late, she knew something was not exactly as they seemed. The tavern was raucous and loud as usual that time of night – she had had to stop a number of fights as well as cook for what seemed like almost a whole army of men! Polly, Louise and Rosa, the girls that were hired at nights to serve were bloody useless – flirting with the drunkards when they were supposed to be busy. They didn't know what was good for them. All the time, complaining about wanting a husband – they had low standards, wanting one of those louts that frequented this place!

Laura had barely noticed the two coming in at first, her back turned as she was at the stove slaving away.

"I said excuse me ma'am," came a softly spoken voice.

She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, "Forgive me lad, I can barely hear you – oh lord, Polly for goodness sake! You've got work to do!" she turned back to him, "What can I do for you? Would you like a pint?"

"Oh, no thank you Ma'am –" he began.

But she interrupted him, "Call me Laura, please. I can't be much older than you."

He nodded and continued, "Is there a room available? With two beds?"

She turned to the reservation book, "Let's see, shall we? I'm not sure to be honest, we're very full…" she opened the book and with her finger she found the appropriate date, "Ah…Sorry Sir. There's only a room with one bed…"

The lad turned apprehensively to the young man behind him. Laura had to stop herself from snickering – a young man indeed! From the delicate pretty features of the face it was obvious the figure was a young lady if one looked closely. Why was she wearing borrowed clothing though, with that cap hiding her hair? No matter, Laura thought, it was none of her business. Knowing young couples, he had probably whisked her away from a father who had refused to allow them to marry. It was rather sweet, really…

His voice was low as he murmured to her, "I'll sleep on the floor," and then he turned to Laura, "We'll take that room please, for the next few days."

He said he'd sleep on the floor! He was a gentleman, an amiable quality indeed. With his gentle way he was almost like a character from a storybook. _Damn, _she had a habit of scribbling down nonsensical ideas in a paper book she kept under her pillow in her small room. She wasn't so silly as to entertain thoughts she'd be a published novelist one day, but sometimes silly little ideas took hold of her and she became restless, as if possessed, until she wrote them down. And this young man unintentionally caused her a bout of restlessness..

The girl seemed a timid thing and moved closer to the young man, looking at her surroundings warily. She must be from privilege, Laura thought, the way she was looking around like a frightened doe. She took hold of the bottom of his coat as if to ease her fear by being close to him, thinking nobody would see that slight gesture. Laura thought she should warn her later, a lad being too close to another did not bode well with this lot..

Laura made him pay for the night and told him they would expect the rest that was due when he signed out at the end of their stay. She then took a lamp and gestured for them to follow as she went up the stairs, down the hall and showed them the room.

"There you are lads," she said handing the young man the key.

The girl sat by the window, saying nothing when the door was unlocked. She looked troubled, fretful even. Laura hoped her father would see things the right way soon. It was always harder for the rich ones, to displease their families.

"I don't normally do this, lad," Laura said to the young man, "But are you two hungry? I'll bring up a dessert, yes? Some pie?" she couldn't imagine the lass lasting very long downstairs with that rowdy lot.

At the mention of pie the girl covered her face, trembling a bit, and the young man thanked her quickly but declined.

He walked her down the hall a little when she departed, and to Laura's surprise he pressed a few coins into her hand, "Laura…It would be most appreciated if…If my friend and I could have some discretion…" he said quietly.

Laura smiled at him and winked, taking his hand and giving him back the coins, "Sometimes, lad…" she said thoughtfully, "The best form of _discretion _is _subtlety." _

He stared at her then realised what she meant, "Oh, of course," then he added, nodding at her, "Thank you! Thank you very much!"

It had been the next morning when word had spread like wildfire that the great Judge Turpin had been found murdered in cold blood and that his lovely little ward had disappeared mysteriously that very night, that Laura began to wonder…She felt no sympathy for the death of the old crone, in fact, her patrons found her singing and dancing in the kitchen in a merry mood that day. She hoped he burned in the deepest pit of Hell, alongside companions such as Judas and the Countess Elizabeth Bathory. What he had done to her own family…Laura immediately changed her thoughts, there was no need to dwell on the past. But if that was his poor little ward hiding in one of her rooms, she would do what she could to help. She doubted such innocents could be involved in a callous murder, but she wouldn't half blame them if they had, considering the monster..

_"Miss!"_

Laura nearly jumped in startlement being forced from her reverie of thought and she spun around, staring face to face with that man with an eyepatch who had been responsible for the trouble that morning.

"I know yeh must be so busy and all, admirin' yehr reflection in the water in the sink there like the pretty Narcissus himself, but I've been waitin' on yeh at the table for ten minutes!" he said deprecatingly.

She raised her chin at him defiantly, her eyes wandering over to Mr. Hope at the table who looked ashen and ill all of a sudden.

"I'll speak plainly with you," Laura turned back to the man, "Why don't you leave him alone? What have you done to him?"

The man looked at her thoughtfully, then said simply, "He's just been told things he needed to know, that's all. Nothin' special. I don' know why he's taken such a turn. But if yeh want to help him, be a dear and pour the sod a drink."

Laura didn't say another word but poured him a mug and went over to the table instead of giving it to the man to take over.

"Mr. Hope?" she said quietly.

He looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen and he thanked her politely as he took the mug but placed it in front of him, leaving it untouched.

She wanted to say something – she didn't know _what_, but he seemed so troubled. The man came up and sat at the table.

"Who are you anyway?" she asked him.

"I'm Mr. Sanders, this boy's lawyer," the man answered crisply.

Laura should have felt immense relief realising the man was not a copper and seemingly was on Mr. Hope's side, but she was still uneasy about it all.

"Funny sort of lawyer," she sniffed, "To attack a client of yours."

"Comes as a free bonus with the service Miss," the man answered sarcastically, "Just like yehr nosiness and _effervescent charm_ comes with yehr cooking skills."

She took no notice of him but looked at the boy as he croaked, his voice hoarse as if it were strained, "Mr. Todd."

Sanders waved at Laura to go away, but she stood there and listened as the boy half whimpered, "Benjamin Barker's story was Mr. Todd's."

_"Are yeh sure?" _Sanders leaned forward, his hands gripping the table as if he was greatly shocked.

"Quite certain," the boy's hand wavered to his head as he tried to process what he was saying, "Johanna's father…He never told me he had a daughter though…But…But everything else…The judge…The wife…Why didn't he tell me Johanna was his?"

Sanders leaned back in his chair, letting out a heavy sigh, "Well, that _is _something…We need to tell the coppers. Bleedin' Benjamin Barker had his revenge then…On all of bleedin' London. We need to have the convict records in Australia checked…Bleedin' bloody hell."

"Is this important?"

Sanders and Mr. Hope looked at her blinking, as if they remembered she was there but she rolled her eyes, "I bloody knew Johanna Barker was upstairs since I found out about Turpin's murder. Lord, sometimes men seem to think everybody else is as thick as them!"

There was a pause, and Sanders turned back to Mr. Hope, pushing the mug closer to him, "Drink up lad, yeh'll need this for when this discovery finally hits yeh."

Laura went back to her work after that, and the two men disappeared for quite some time after that discussion. She continued with her work – serving and cooking. There was never any rest for the wicked…So many customers, so many mouths to feed, so many dishes to wash...Wasn't much different from her childhood really. Was life always going to be like this? A series of endless dishes that needed to be washed. To think, she'd had such dreams as a little girl when she was the apple of her father's eye and he told her she could do anything. Even capture the moon in her hands if she'd wanted. The crime of all loving fathers, she thought with a sigh, they made life seem but a dream to their little girls and they grow up believing such nonsense and not being ready for what was really out there. The moon stayed in the sky unable to be caught and endless dishes needed to be washed..

Her mind wandered over the situation that was gripping London. Mr. Hope had a lawyer at least. That was something, wasn't it? Johanna Barker had found her prince in that young man. Laura couldn't help thinking though, that it would not go well for them. It never did for good folk.

She sighed heavily, rinsing a dish, and echoed Mr. Sanders earlier remark in her head. _Bleedin' bloody hell._


	12. Chapter 12

Thank you, thank you, thank you heaps you four! Ahhh, you make me happy.

In a major hurry. Am getting major crap from the oldies to get off the computer, so I'm just quickly posting this. But thanks muchly for the reviews.

I think I'm going to take a few days off before I write the next chapter - don't worry, I'll be back soon. I've just never written twelve long chapters before in such quick succession. It was odd, I just needed to get it all out, but now I think I need to take a break for a day or two just so I'm sure I'm not writing crap for the sake of it.

But thank you muchly, I appreciate it very much.

Ahhh, getting yelled at. Must go.

* * *

**_Chapter Twelve._**

Sanders walked down the street vaguely aware that the boy was trailing behind morosely. He had not taken his discovery well. It would have been a bit of a shock, to be sure, Sanders could concede that, but at the end of the day, he should accept it and move on. Sanders had no time for any sort of dark moods – there was far too much to be done. One could compare it to if one was stuck in the bleedin' cold, the more one focused on the savage air, the colder one became. If one kept walking, head forward, focused on a purpose, one would be fine.

He stopped outside of a shop and in a moment Anthony bumped into the back of him.

"Easy lad," he pointed at the doorway, "This looks as good as any place to buy a frock, don't it?"

Anthony turned and stared absentmindedly, his voice weak as he said, "What?"

Sanders clapped his shoulder to try and pull him from whatever dark place he was, "A dress. For Miss Barker. The reason why we're out here."

"Oh…Oh yes, of course," Anthony moved to the shop window looking in, but took hold of Sander's arm as he moved to walk in, "Wait."

Sanders stopped and looked oddly at the boy as he examined the gowns shown on display before him. A dress was a dress to Sanders – of course he knew what he liked on a woman and what he thought looked atrocious – but sometimes his taste seemed to be contrary to London's high fashion. Anthony seemed to be staring at the fabric, the colour, the cut for a few moments before he nodded, "Yes, it is suitable."

Sanders was the first to enter, and his nose twitched the moment he stepped in. _Perfume. _The first warning for a man that women were on the prowl. The flowery, illusory scent that lulled all men into a false sense of security. Oh yes, it was the _first_ warning. Then there was their smile, their lips painted meticulously crimson – the colour of _passion _they say – but when it comes to a woman it really means _danger. _They were a trap, all of them. Like a poor insect that finds itself ensnared in the clutches of a carnivorous flower. It was all the same, ever since Eve, ever since Delilah. The downfall of man. Primped curls created after hours of effort, slender waists due to being laced up tight, soft hands due to idleness – it was all lies to mislead poor sods into chaining themselves to them. One would think men would have realised their tricks by now, but nothing seemed to change. Women turned into their mothers and the cycle continued and would until the sun set at the end of time because men were no better than children who became besotted by a desired toy. Only his Jo was uncorrupted, untainted, innocent, good…Only his Jo who he would protect.

He did not think in such a manner due to being spurned in the past by a woman – sentimental women were the ones who clung to _that _theory. He wasn't so pathetic as the fools they swooned over in the brain decaying novels they read, who only needed _the right woman _to _unlock their heart _and _heal the pain_. He shuddered at that concept, he had heard whispers from women with ideas of that sort of rot far too many times concerning him. No, it was not bitterness that made him think this way, but basic logic. Physical attraction and enjoying the pleasures that came with it was natural and basic biology and integral for the continuance of the human race. Love, _love _was suicide and just a petty game for manipulators. He never wanted to _own_ Johanna's soul or whatever it was the minstrels sang in their sonnets and he didn't want to burden Johanna with the weight of giving her _his_. He wanted to care for her, keep her close, help her grow into a free spirit that she had always been denied the chance to be. Wasn't _that _deeper than pitiful selfish love?

He looked over at Anthony Hope who was examining a gown as if he were judging a piece of art. There was no competition really. She obviously felt fondness for the idiot, but doesn't a bird always feel something for the one that unlocked their cage? But that fondness would soon wane when she realised there was nothing more to it than that. The boy _stole_ her; it was as simple as that. He hadn't even had the nerve to stand up to the old man. Sanders had to smile at the thought of _that _– he would have been like an untrained pup pissing on the carpet in fright standing up to the great Judge Turpin.

Sanders looked around at the gowns on display – they were of every hue. From midnight blue to a deep mauve to coral pink. He moved over to one and called out after touching the burnt apricot muslin material with a purple sash – "Lad, what about this one?"

Anthony moved towards him curiously, but then when he saw what Sanders was looking at, the curiosity turned to disdain, "No…No, no, no, do you have _any _idea of taste?"

Anthony had seemed to find his element in this shop which was disturbing enough, but for Sanders to be told so plainly that his choice inspired revulsion made Sanders look at him dangerously. The boy didn't seem to be aware of this as he patted his back pityingly, "Why don't you wait outside? I'll pick the gown. I was raised with mostly women and girls, I know a little about what is suitable."

"We're going to the bleedin' coppers, not a bleedin' ball!" Sanders snapped.

But the boy had moved on to another dress, his finger tapping his lower lip as he looked at it thoughtfully. Sanders turned and saw two women walking towards him with beaming smiles about to ask if they could assist him. He could just envision the torturous questions and remarks – _who_ _was the gown for?_

_What was the occasion?_

_Was the woman in mind for the gown special?_

_Oh, she's not your fiancé?_

_Do you have a fiancé?_

_Why do you wear that eyepatch? Oh you poor thing…_

Hmmm.

Perhaps he _should_ wait outside…

* * *

Laura looked up as the two walked back into the tavern while she was mixing ingrediants in a bowl to make a cake, Sanders looking quite frazzled for some reason and Anthony looked much better than he had before, with a large rectangular box underneath his arm.

Sanders moved over to her and said tiredly, "Gin."

"Gin? So early in the day?" Laura asked but poured him one as he sat at the bar, "What is troubling you? Has there been more news?"

Sanders downed the tumbler and answered simply, _"Women."_

"It seems Mr. Sanders is quite popular with the ladies," Anthony elaborated, "He tried to step out of a dress shop but bumped into one and all of a sudden he was surrounded after he stumbled and fell –"

_"Enough, _lad," Sanders snarled and did not think too kindly of the nosy tavern girl either when she smirked, "Yeh need to ask the woman a favour, so bleedin' well ask…Bloody vultures all o' them…"

Anthony placed the box on the bar, "Laura – if you could spare a moment or two I would be most obliged if you could help…That is…Since you knew about Johanna all along – if you could help her change into this dress…"

Laura curiously moved forward, "Well, let me see what it looks like then."

He lifted the lid and from soft tissue paper he brought out a delicate gown. Laura's hand flew to her mouth, "Oh, you really are besotted with the girl, aren't you Mr. Hope? Why, it's _beautiful."_

He seemed quite pleased with it himself as she surveyed the soft green morning dress made of cotton with delicate pink flowers embroidered around the waist and on the tight fitting sleeves that would fit low on the shoulder. Small silver beads accentuated the centre of the pink flowers and Laura touched them lightly with her fingers. Her eyes then fell upon the straw bonnet still lying nestled in the tissue paper with a matching pink rayon ribbon that would tie in a bow at the nape of the neck when it was worn.

"Well, I _must say_ Mr. Hope, I _am _impressed," Laura commented, "You thought of everything, you did, and matching green slippers too! My!"

Anthony smiled at her praise while Sanders grunted, "A dress is a dress," until Laura bit her lip pensively.

"Where's the crinoline?" she asked suddenly.

"The…The what?" Anthony asked while Sanders looked up confused.

"The hoop that goes under the dress that a girl needs to wear – " her voice faded, "You didn't get one? Well what about petticoats?"

Anthony looked at her completely perplexed, then mumbled, "I…I…I didn't know –"

"Yeh, didn't _know?" _Sander's voice suddenly thundered and he looked at Anthony aghast, "Yeh said yeh knew it all! Bleedin' hell, yeh told me off for trying to help yeh pick the fabric! _I have sisters, I don't need help! _Yet yeh forget what yeh need to buy for UNDER THE DRESS!"

"Well – but – " Anthony tried to splutter.

But Sanders would not stop now he had started his tirade, _"I helped Evelyn buy her dress for the town dance! I know it all _he says! Well now look, now we're in a bleedin' mess aren't we! She can't even wear the dress yeh bought her! _Oh, look everybody, we're so stylish we pick a matching bonnet! Don't tell me about fashion –"_

Laura had picked up the wooden spoon she had been using moments before and struck the side of Sanders' head, "Quit that! You're worse than a child!"

Sanders' face darkened and he viciously grabbed the spoon from Laura snarling, _"Don't. Ever. Hit me again woman –"_

That would have been quite a menacing threat to any other woman but Laura was not perturbed as she pinched his ear hard, "Now go! Both of you! Completely ridiculous! I'll take this gown and I'll go to my own things and see what I can find –"

"But –" Anthony tried to say.

"GO!"

Both men stood and did as they were told. Laura shook her head to herself as she took the box and moved over to where she slept, in a small room in the back of the kitchens, hearing Sanders still rant and rave as they moved upstairs, _"Oh I know fashion!_ You bleeding know fashion, my foot! Have you never even _been_ with a woman you great big imbecile…"

Half an hour later Sanders and Anthony were waiting outside the room, leaning against the wall as Laura was helping Johanna to dress inside. Sanders took from his pocket a packet of cigarettes and offered Anthony one. He declined with just a shake of his head, and Sanders lit himself one, then puffed in the smoke, breathing out and seeing the strands of silver dance around him, then fade into nothingness. The boy's dark mood had returned now that the frock dilemma was taken care of and he had nothing to entertain his mind but the terrible realisation of Johanna's parentage.

"Bleedin' know fashion, indeed," Sanders muttered, with no real intent to insult, but just to alleviate some of the boy's concern.

The door opened and Laura smiled at the two of them and with a flourish of her hand, she said, "The lady is ready to have you gentlemen call upon her."

Sanders let the boy in first and followed him after. But he himself stopped midway at the vision that met him. It hit him at that moment as he looked upon the golden haired angel all done up so beautifully, _oh lord almighty, she ain't no Jo anymore…_

"Johanna," he said softly in awe.

But it was not he she was paying attention to. The young lady giggled, obviously happy to be dolled up as she was used to, twirling around to show off her gown. Laura had combed out her golden hair which tumbled down her bare shoulders, with small intricate braids here and there. Her pale cheeks were flushed slightly with a touch of rouge, and there was a faint hint of perfume lingering in the air.

"What do you think Anthony? Do I look pretty?" she asked, "Thank you so much for buying this for me!"

Sanders turned to the boy who for some reason was finding it difficult to look at her. His whole figure was trembling – was that a tear falling down the sod's cheek?

"Anthony…Why do you not even look at me?"

Johanna looked at him confused. In her hands she held the matching bonnet and she held it up for him to take and place over her hair. The boy seemed to regain some of his senses as he stumbled forward, mumbling, "You look like a dream, Miss Barker."

She laughed uneasily at the formal title he gave her, but said nothing more as he placed the bonnet over her head, then tied the ribbon neatly at the nape of her neck.

"I – I need to tell you something about Mr…Mr Todd…" the boy's voice was broken, and his face twitched as if he wanted to cry, but he pulled back and with no more word from him he turned and fled from the room in such a rush he did not close the door behind him.

Silence filled the room, as the three remaining people stood there in shock.

"Anthony!" Johanna's voice cried out and she looked surprised at the tremor in her own voice, then she turned to Sanders, "Why did he barely even look at me? What has changed?"


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you for your kind words booksroc!

Thanks Ravencaller. I admit, for some reason…I'm missing something. I can't seem to quite get it back. But I'm trying. I've been screwing around with this chapter for days…Mmm…I don't really know what else to say. Don't lose faith, I know I'll get it back.

Thanks Vicki…And you have no idea how much I'm considering that as well…

Aww, thanks BeBopALula and xxlindazzz!!

Thanks all of you. This chapter didn't turn out exactly as I wanted it to, but I'm bored of looking at it, so here goes. I'm just impatient to get on to other things that are going to happen.

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**_Chapter Thirteen._**

Johanna was waiting by the window, looking out into the garden, pensive about Anthony. Something was not right. He had always been so warm and besotted with her, but the way he looked at her – or to more aptly put it – _didn't_ look at her showed a new distance, which frightened her. Yes, it was ridiculous to be frightened of such a thing but she had not realised how used to his smile and warmth that she had become. Dane and Laura had both left, Laura assuring her that she was sure he would come back soon. Johanna had begged Dane to go find him but he had muttered that he would return when he was ready. Oh, _damnit_, she hated having to be holed up here the whole time – it wasn't fair for Anthony to run out like that!

She started to pace the room fretfully – was it because of her fit from that morning? When he had not believed her about her seeing Mr. Todd throwing that woman into the fire? Did he think her truly mad?

She did not want to spoil the makeup the kind tavern woman had helped her apply to her face, but she couldn't stop the tears from burning her eyelashes and rolling down her cheeks. She couldn't seem to stop crying over the past few days – _was_ she going mad?

She remembered when Anthony had led her from the asylum after freeing her those few nights ago. He had tried to pull her close but she had maintained a distance from him. She was wary of being touched, the Beadle's foul breath and crushing fingers still lingering in her memory when he had taken her away. She belonged to the mad house. She should never have left.

* * *

She remembered that night, nearly two months ago when Mr. Turpin had turned his sad eyes away from her and Beadle Bamford with his cruel grasp had thrust her into the carriage. She had never felt such fright in her life, being trapped in that small box of a hansom where she had no idea where she was being taken. Fright seemed a rather trivial description for the pure blind terror she was feeling. She heard Anthony crying out from outside and as the carriage started to make its way to Hades for all she knew she screamed for him, pummeling the sides, kicking the Beadle away from her, struggling to see in the dark. Whenever she got into such a state she could almost feel her senses slipping away from her and she always struggled to grab them back and become lucid again. Whenever she was in one of her "dark moods" as Mr. Turpin called them, he always instructed her to rest, _"Johanna, you have over excited yourself. Retire to your room at once."_ But tonight she was in so much panic she pushed all senses away, giving in to her turmoil.

That was until white lights sparkled in front of her eyes and a sharp crack tore the fabric of the still night air. Her cheek stung and she slumped back in her seat, breathing heavily as she came to herself again, her hand wavering to where she had been hit roughly.

_"Johanna, Johanna, I'll find you!" _she barely heard Anthony's voice calling as the carriage moved further and further away from her. He must have followed for a little while in desperation, until he realised it was a useless pursuit. There was no way he could have maintained that speed for very long.

The slap had shocked her dumb.

She had never been struck before, and the ring in her ear lasted a few minutes. Surely she would bruise from it – her flesh had never known an assault like that. The pain was sharp but it was as if her body was stunned too as the tears did not fall from her eyes, but remained where they were formed.

"Bloody little bitch!" the Beadle snapped at her, "Oh how I've been longing to do _that _for years, and worse."

"You struck me," was all she could say as she stared at him surprised.

"I'll do a lot more than that if you act like such a demon again," he paused as he took his snuff box from his coat pocket. Placing it underneath his nose he sniffed, took a moment then half sneezed, and replaced the object back in his pocket, "Don't tempt me girl. As long as there are no _markings _upon your precious little figure when you return to him – and yes, you _will _return sooner or later, a darling little lamb used to the best couldn't possibly last long where you're going – I can do whatever I like to you."

Mr. Turpin was sending her away. She had longed for such a thing since she could remember. And he said it was up to her whether she returned or not. But fear still stuck to her gut and she despised herself for having a longing for him. He had always been there to witness his punishments on her – this time it must be _particularly_ cruel if he did not even want to be a witness to his malicious handiwork. Especially if Beadle Bamford did not fear the repercussions of touching her. The order of everything was upside down and inside out. She shivered and murmured without realising, "The world has gone mad tonight."

"Oh, you'll _learn _about madness after tonight, _my pet," _Beadle laughed, "Where you'll be going madness reigns!"

Her body seemed to have recovered from the numb shock as her tears finally sprang from her eyes and watered down her cheeks, "Where am I to go? If I do not want him, why does he want me?"

The Beadle leant forward, taking her face in his grasp and pulled her to look at him, "You're going to an asylum girl. Where you should have been thrown in before – you're just like your mother, my dear, and not just because of that godawful mane of gold you've got there…Ah, he's right – you don't like it when your mother is spoken about, do you?"

For Johanna had begun to sob, as she did every time Lucy Barker was brought up. She had a mixture of feelings when it concerned her mother and it barely involved love. Her mother had left her with the Judge. She had been consumed in her own insanity, she had had no thought at all of her daughter. But in a way she had had more courage than Johanna had – she had ended her life. Johanna was too weak to do such a thing. It wasn't even about God's wrath that stilled her from doing such a thing…It was about leaving Mr. Turpin. She was _sick_…She had made a feeble attempt at defiance earlier that night when she had told him directly she _would _be leaving him that night, but it was as if that line had been scripted for a performance where she acted the part of a rebellious girl. She had had to force it out. Maybe she _did_ belong in an asylum after all – she couldn't live with him, yet…She was chained to him too. He had always promised her he would keep her sane. How long would she have survived with Anthony before she had begged him to return her?

Mr. Turpin had always promised…

It sunk in at that moment just what Beadle had said. She swallowed, before she echoed, "An – an asylum?"

His smile deepened at her realisation and he nodded, "Only the best for Judge Turpin's pretty little ward – Fogg's Asylum, though it's also known as –"

_"Bedlam," _she finished his sentence on the verge of hysterics again.

He _promised_ her, he had always promised her he would protect her! He knew how fragile she was, how she bordered on the edge of insanity as it was! And he was sending her to her own idea of hell! And he very well _knew_ it!

Beadle looked uncertainly at her as she started to move about wildly again and pushed away his attempts at restraining her. The fool had thought this would set her into silent tears, not a worrisome fit. Her body twisted as she tried to thrust open the carriage door as it was rolling through the streets till finally his fingers found their way around her throat, pressing heavily on her larynx. She tried to fight him off, her terror reaching a new peak when she finally could not battle any further and she slumped back in her seat, fighting raggedly for air when he released her.

"Jesus Christ, you _are_ mad!"

She didn't hear him through her own thoughts racing through her mind; _Mr. Turpin's trying to break me. Trying to break me. Dear lord, idiot! He isn't_ trying!_ I_ will _break, there is no question of it!_ Such betrayal stung her far worse than any slap could have. He was sending her to that dark and dank place of madness, the worst place possible – the recesses of her own troubled mind inherited from her mother as surely as any other daughter would inherit their mother's jewels, where he would not help. She would return when she could not last, he knew that and she knew that. She would never see Anthony the sailor again. She was doomed to be trapped forever – either through madness or returning to Mr. Turpin where her mind would be damaged anyway, perhaps irreparable even for him.

"He betrayed me," she managed to whimper hoarsely.

Beadle seemed to understand the mess of her thoughts and the very conclusion she had come to, as he smirked at her turmoil, "Clever girl," he sneered, "Didn't take you long to realise why he was sending you there, did it? Do you feel pain, you little slut, do you feel anything at all in that cold stone in your chest that's supposed to be a heart? He's sending you to the worst place you could be sent to, like where he was, the moment he realised you'd spread your legs for any handsome man who offered to steal you away. Did you even know his name before you accepted his help? Shameful girl! After all the good Judge has done for you! After all he went through with your mother too! It's bad blood I keep saying!"

* * *

She did not want to think about the rest of that night. She never wanted to feel anything like it ever again – not even just because it had been a cocktail of fear and anger and hurt and betrayal, no, she didn't want to feel that much of _anything_ ever again. Her chest had hurt, her heart had beat as fast as a wild animal trapped in captivity, her whole mind was chaotic.

She had nobody left. Mr. Turpin was murdered, Anthony thought her mad and it wouldn't take long for Dane to realise what a mess of a girl she was.

She was seated by the window again, looking out and crying to herself when she heard footsteps slowly make their way up the stairs and the door open hesitantly. She turned to Anthony, who still would not look at her, and she waited for him to say there had been a mistake. He would leave her here and set sail.

She managed to stand, and looked at him directly as he said quietly, "There is something you need to know."

She waited, her heart thumping, for him to continue. He moved forward slowly, till he was close to her, and he touched her arm gently for a moment before it dropped back to his side. And then he spoke.

Her legs buckled right from underneath her and her back jarred as she suddenly fell back where she had been sitting moments before after his eyes raised to her and he said, "I don't know how to quite tell you this, dear, but Mr. Todd was your Father."


	14. Chapter 14

Thank you very much booksroc and ravencaller!

Vicki…You know I had to have a "dun dun DUNNNN" ending there, lol. Thanks darl.

Lost-Blue-Phantom – I totally get why you think that. I was deliberating myself on it too, trying to make him not out of character. And it's a shame he's dead and this is through Johanna's point of view and I can't go through his thoughts, but, he only ever harmed her physically when she needed to be restrained. Beadle could easily justify that to Turpin if it ever got back to him – "she was trying to throw herself out of the moving carriage my lord," I can imagine him whining and bowing lots. As for what he said to her, Beadle is an interesting character – I'm going to go into more of him in flashbacks in future chapters, to show his nature. He's a jealous little creature. And not being able to harm her as much as he likes I think would cause his tongue to loosen. As he said "as long as there are no markings" he could get away with harming her in order to "restrain" her. I don't believe it's true that he could have done "whatever he wanted" to her, but he would have used that to exaggerate his power to frighten her enough not to throw too much of a fit. So, there's my justification. Feel free to tell me more things you don't agree with in the future! You could be right, and I'll take due note. I understand why you would have thought that in the previous chapter as I myself spent time mulling over it. :)

Thank you guys!

And I _know _you're going to hate me because of this chapter. I'm so, so sorry, but I HAD to do it this way! I did, I did, truly! I couldn't just continue the story without his...

Oh, and um, yes, people were sent to Australia for such trivial matters if you think that sounds a tad unbelievable. There's some info on that kind of thing if you're interested, it won't let me link a website on here but just Google convict crimes.

Erm...Some things a certain lawyer says, aren't necessarily my own opinion, just thought I'd get that out there.

Please review if you like this, people.

* * *

**_Chapter Fourteen._**

No sooner had Anthony spoken those words he realised his idiocy. He had walked up those stairs with incredible trepidation, each stair offering a different way to how he could tell her. But each option was unsuitable. How in the hell could he tell a young woman who had already been through unspeakable pain, that her lineage included a serial murderer? A cold blooded delinquent who had been driven to madness because of her guardian?

Oh, he felt _sick. _

Nausea simmered in the pit of his stomach, and before he had entered the room he had had to lean against the stair railing uncertain of his balance. He had always had fine sea legs, he had never had a bout of sickness while sailing even the rockiest and stormiest of weathers. Men far older and more experienced than he had quaked in their boots, cowering before the majesty of nature against such tiny specks of humanity. But Anthony had been thrilled, even then, riding creation's rage on the high seas, adrenaline rushing through him as the ocean and the rain pelted against him like shrapnel. Right in the middle of a storm, he had laughed as the wind whipped through his recklessly tangled hair. Not _at it_, a sailor knows they must never mock the seas, but _with it _as if he rode the waves alongside Neptune himself in his chariot. Some of the crew thought it dangerous folly, others thought it just the arrogance all of youth seemed to possess, where they believed they grasped immortality by its throat. Either way, he had never felt as sick as at this moment, where he had to go to the woman he loved and cause her more pain. No, _pain_ was superficial, was slight, was trivial – he was going to cause her agony.

He had been a downright coward. There was no other word to describe it, when he had fled the room after seeing her the first time after what he had discovered. It had been her soft smile that had undone him. He had run from the room picturing her frown from when she had yelled at him before – when he had caught a glimpse of Mr. Todd in her temper. He had reprimanded himself before, calling it foolishness, but it was _true – _the shape of her mouth when she had frowned…That mouth he had dreamed about _kissing. _He wished he had never been told such a thing! He wished he had left London the night he had freed Johanna!

"There was once a barber who had a wife," Sanders had explained to him, almost similarly to how Mr. Todd had told him that night they had arrived in London. Sanders wove a tale for Anthony, about a beautiful woman this _Benjamin Barker_ had married – far above his own meagre station. He had been just a lad from the working house who had been fortunate as a barber's apprentice and had set up his own business when his employer had encouraged him and helped him with the means to do so.

"Life had been kind to him," Sanders had paused for a moment thoughtfully.

_Life has been kind to you - _Anthony remembered those cold words of Mr. Todd's as they whispered through his memory at that moment of recognition - _you will learn._

"O' Course," Sanders had continued, "Nobody knows just where Mr. Barker had come from before the working house. Probably abandoned by parents who couldn' afford to care for him. Probably a bleedin' Catholic, unable to use precautions for fear o' the wrath o' God, yet unable to tend to their young once the poor brats are born. But yes, life had been good to Mr. Barker. The majority of those brats aren't half as successful when they grow out o' childhood…Anyway, somehow the young man charmed an exquisite creature to abandon all the comforts of wealth and marry him. Stranger things have happened. Her family disowned her o' course, but young love conquers all – or so they say. But there was one man who could not let go of the fact that Lucy Armstrong had married so far beneath her. She had had scores of suitors from her rightful class – but no, she wanted her Benjamin. And they had a child after they wed…A tiny girl, called Johanna. From Hebrew origin, meaning _the Lord is gracious."_ Sanders finished the last sentence with a tone of bitter irony.

Sanders had continued the tale and each statement burdened Anthony terribly. Benjamin Barker had been arrested for a trivial crime – stealing a man's pocket watch which had been found in his possession. The court transcripts had said that Barker had maintained the man had been a customer and must have left it there when he departed the barber shop. But the courts ruled against him and he was sent to a colony a world away from his home and family.

After Anthony had paced the street outside the tavern for nearly an hour after running from Johanna, he had thought about the rest of what Sanders had told him.

A distraught Mrs. Barker without means to properly care for her child.

A fatherless Johanna.

A rumoured public rape.

A woman that went mad…

He had had to stop pacing the streets, at the thought of poor Mrs. Barker's fate. She must have resembled Johanna, for besides one or two slight features that he could only recognise now that he knew the truth, she did not look like Mr. Todd. He imagined his beautiful Johanna dealing with such loss, to have the man she loved torn away from her when she had already surrendered so much for him. And then to be alone because she had given everything up. He bent down and rested on his haunches, covering his mouth with his hands. How the devil was he supposed to tell Johanna all of this? Lord, he had so much responsibility thrust upon him. He was not yet even twenty three!

"Have yeh given up on her already, lad?"

He had looked up at Sanders who was staring down at him contemptuously. He must have wandered out while Anthony had been lost in thought.

"I…" Anthony's voice faded, and he pulled his gaze away from Sanders and said with shame, "I don't know if I can do this – I don't – it isn't that I don't love her – but – but…"

"Bleedin' weakling," Sanders spat at the ground and turned, walking back into the tavern, "It is just as I thought."

It was the absolute scorn in Sanders voice more than his actual words that caused Anthony to stir. The disdain bore a resemblance too similar to that of seamen who had openly laughed and mocked him for having a high position that he had rightfully earned at such a young age.

"I beg your pardon?" Anthony retorted, affronted, and not afraid to hide it.

Sanders stopped at the doorway, not turning back to him as he replied, "Yeh'r only a child yehrself, infatuated by her beauty. I don't blame yeh boy, she is a lovely creature. And yehr intentions have been noble, don't think I have not noticed yehr chivalry. It isn't every man who would abide sleeping on a hard floor when they would have believed they had earned the right to sleep in the same bed as a beautiful woman they had just rescued. I know yeh mean well. And I will still help yeh of course, yeh have my word on that. But go back home to yehr mother afterwards, and marry a lass with far less…Troublesome history. Leave Miss Barker to a man who's a bit more experienced with life."

Anthony stood up and strode in to the tavern, having to clench his fists and restrain himself from starting anything with the lawyer, but he did hiss as he walked past, "Dane Sanders take your patronising _horseshit _and shovel it where it belongs!"

He then moved past Sanders without further word and moved over to the stairs where he had to come to terms with the fact that what he was about to say would hurt his precious Johanna.

He was in the room now, standing right in front of her in fact with every intention to tell her the news gently. His hand touched her arm lightly, and he practiced what he was to say to her in his mind before he spoke, _Johanna dear, you must sit down. There is something vital about yourself that you need to know. Oh, but Johanna, you will not be alone to bear this burden. I am here, as I always have been and as I always will be._

Such honeyed words to ease the wounds his news would inevitably bring. But it was her tear stained face that curtailed this and instead without thinking, he blurted out a feeble and panicked, "I don't know how to quite tell you this, dear, but Mr. Todd was your Father."


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks heaps as usual booksroc and lost-blue-phantom! As usual your reviews are appreciated.

Hehe, Vicki, Anthony amuses us both so very much.. :P

Ravencaller, that's very true, about the crimes. And thanks.

Enjoy. Loads of imagery and coolness awaits in the next chappity chap...Might take me a few days to write though..

* * *

**_Chapter Fifteen._**

It was such a ridiculous notion and so unexpected that Johanna fell back to her seat, her hand flying to her mouth while one clutched at Anthony's arm, laughter erupting from her.

Anthony stared at her uneasily and stammered, "Why…Do…Why do you laugh, Johanna?"

She waited a moment before composing herself, then stood, "Because I thought you were going to say something else."

"Oh…" Anthony sounded uncertain, but encouraged by her grasp on his arm he raised his other hand and with his knuckle he tenderly brushed her cheek. And he was pleased that she didn't move away. She was like a wild colt, he thought, one that came from untamed lands. He should feel privileged he was making such progress. For a moment he loathed the bonnet he himself had bought, trapping her gold hair underneath it, and he unlaced the ribbon quickly and pulled it off, discarding it without a thought to the floor.

They stared at each other awkwardly, and an embarrassed lump formed in his throat. He stepped back and swallowed it down, then said remembering just why he had come to her in the first place, "Did you even hear what I said?"

"Of course I did," she answered quietly, "You said that your friend – " she stopped as a look of pain flashed over his features, "I'm sorry, forgive me, Mr. Todd who _was _your friend. You said he was my father. But that is outrageous – my father is a criminal who was sent to a colony in some godforsaken place."

He took hold of her hands in his, squeezing them gently, "I believe Mr. Todd came from a colony in Australia…I found him you see, I rescued him from the seas. I didn't know he was an escaped convict, I just saw a man in distress. He told me his name was Sweeney Todd – I thought it an odd name and even guessed that it might not be his true name, but what of that? All men hide secrets," he paused, then continued gently, "Your father's name was Benjamin Barker –"

She let go of his hands suddenly, looking at him as if a memory stirred, but was struggling to remember it correctly as if somebody had whispered in her ear but she had not quite grasped what was said.

He tried to continue, but her finger moved to his lips and she shook her head, "Don't continue!"

He looked at her pityingly, "Johanna, I must. You need to know this –"

She stamped her foot angrily and for just a moment Anthony had a vision of his youngest sister Penny, her eyes ablaze and her nut brown curls bobbing viciously from side to side as she stamped her own foot. She had been eight when he had left her, far too old herself for such temper tantrums and she had screamed at him, her nails digging into his arms, drawing physical pain from him even through his shirtsleeves, _"You will not leave me! You promised you would help decorate the Christmas tree! What will you do for a Christmas tree on your stupid ship? If you go I'll hate you, I'll hate you, I'll hate you and I'll pray a whale swallows you all up, just like one swallowed Jonah!" _She would be twelve now…Had it _really_ been four years since he had seen her?

"Hush! Don't talk!" Johanna snapped, her hands wavering to her head, mumbling something to herself inaudibly. Her hands then pressed against her stomach and her voice was high, not quite hysterical but frightened nonetheless, "He stole…he was a _thief_ – he wasn't a _murderer!"_

"Johanna, dear –" but he stopped when he realised she still wasn't talking to him when she continued debating with herself.

"He – that man was the _Devil _– my father wasn't the Devil – I am not a child of the Devil, I'm Johanna Barker, ward of the great Judge Turpin…I'm not insane – I'm not – I'm not marked by my mother's madness and my father is not Lucifer. My father was just a scoundrel, nothing unnatural, he gambled and he stole and he abandoned my mother and I, and was arrested and sent away. The man I dream about dancing with, he is not my father, _he is not my father!" _she began to sob, pressing her palms against her forehead, "But they both mentioned Benjamin Barker on that night – just before he slit his throat…Mr. Turpin mentioned the name as if he recognised him…Beadle said bad blood ran through me, I am the Devil's child –"

Anthony tried to pull her close to him at this moment tentatively, troubled at this warbled rambling from the woman he loved. The wild colt he had managed to touch moments before was untamed once more. He pushed back the same bout of fear he had had before _I'm too young for this responsibility _and instead took hold of her, "Johanna, please –" but she spurned his touch, pushing him back roughly and cried out angrily, _"Don't tell me what I did or did not see! You weren't there! I know what I saw was real!" _

That last shout brought her back to her senses and slowly she lowered herself to the wooden floor shaking, "I'm _sorry_…I'm sorry – I'm so sorry…I thought we were back to this morning, the argument about what happened to Mrs. Lovett."

He slowly placed himself beside her, saying nothing, chewing his lip thoughtfully and she sighed sadly, "I've lost you, haven't I?"

He turned to face her, raising a brow and she blushed, looking down at her hands, "I'm mad Anthony, can't you see that?"

He said nothing for a few moments, then quietly mused aloud, "I've heard that the surest way of finding a lunatic is to hear them deny their madness. If a person says they are mad, then they are aware of their surroundings and as a consequence they are not mad. You are _not_ mad, my dear Johanna. You are…You are upset, troubled…You have been a witness to and have heard things that would make an _emperor_ crumble to his knees."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trapping the flow of more tears but then opened them and stared at him so hard it was his turn to blush at her attention and he asked, "What? What are you looking at me like that for?"

"You sounded older just then."

He laughed, "Really?" but she shook her head, pulling a face, "No, now you've lost it. You had it for a moment, but now you sound the same again."

He shrugged with a smile, "A pity."

She did not reply to this, but instead moved closer to him and lay her head on his leg, curling up, her hand moving from her side to rest on his knee beside her face, "You said you needed to tell me more and I am assuming there are reasons why you have only just discovered Mr. Todd was Benjamin Barker…And Benjamin Barker being my father…I know that Dane must have told you this – but – but I want you to tell me. Your voice is so soft to hear."

And what man wildly in love with a creature such as she, could argue with that? Anthony Hope was quite aware that his leg would suffer for it later being in the same position for very long, but as his fingers smoothed over her golden hair, he cared not for that triviality. He told her gently about the barber who had married a woman and how they had been happy, and how they had loved their only child devotedly.

"Lad."

Anthony looked up at the doorway where Laura was standing pensively, "Mr. Sanders is pacing the tavern downstairs awfully tense…I think he has a point – you two should go down now, to see the coppers."

Anthony thanked her and said he would be down presently. When Laura left, he touched Johanna's shoulder lightly, "Johanna, we must leave now. I'll tell you the rest on the way."

But she did not move or acknowledge what he had said, instead she murmured longingly, "Please tell me about my father. Tell me everything. From how you met him to how many sugars he had in his tea. Was he...Was he a good man in spite of everything?"

* * *

Um, it's me again, just because I'm a paranoid history geek and am fearing there are people out there who are too, yes, I'm uncertain when Christmas tree decorating became popular in the masses. I know the first decorated one was in about 1520, then it was used with royalty and in Europe, but I'm not 100% sure when it was first done in an English home...But Anthony's lineage is European (in my world anyway) so that'll explain it.


	16. Chapter 16

Thanks heaps for the help with the Christmas tree thing guys. Ahh, I thought Queen Victoria made it popular, which is why I just thought, screw it, put it in. I just couldn't find a definitive date.

Thanks Vickisticks! Yes, I just called you Vickisticks. :|

Lost-Blue-Phantom (haha for quoting Lost) and booksroc, ah, thank you!

Thank you Ravencaller, AH, you have to read Lord of the Flies! Ah, I love that book! Yes, I'm a sadist..

* * *

**_Chapter Sixteen._**

As Anthony spoke about his recollections of how he met Mr. Sweeney Todd, his mind wandered to those memories on his ship.

"He didn't take sugar," he spoke absentmindedly, answering Johanna's question, "But then he wasn't a tea drinking person anyway. Whenever I saw him drink, it was always alcohol. Always the hard stuff. But he wasn't a lousy drunk like some of my men…He could hold his liquor. He just kept to himself when he drank...He was very quiet."

* * *

_The night was as dark as pitch. Anthony looked up searchingly at the sky as he walked the deck, trying to spot any specks of stars, to see if the clouds had moved on. There was none, all he could see was endless obsidian. It looked as if a child had spilled a bottle of black ink across the heavens, as the raven colour was strewn over the sky. __He then returned to looking for damage to the ship. __His men scattered across the deck, inspecting for damage too. It had been a mighty storm that had come to pass over them, far more vicious than usual. The winds had howled like wild banshees and some of the more religious men had cowered in prayer. Anthony had been praying himself as they seemed to be tossed around like a child's toy in a bathtub, across the span of two hours. Yes, fear had gripped him too, but he knew the ocean was a fickle lover; she would be docile and forgiving by dawn. He had to laugh at the Lord's sense of humour though, in spite of it all. He had been praying in earnest since he had first come aboard, to somehow be able to prove himself to his men who seemed reluctant and begrudging to follow orders from such a "pup". But that night might have been an answer to that particular prayer. He had not curled up in a ball in his cabin like they probably assumed he would have done, but he had shown good leadership skills, barking out orders and tending to things himself alongside them. His hand still clutched to his rosary beads in his coat pocket however – it made him feel secure to hold on to_ something _that connected him with the Lord when he was supposed to be wearing a mask of fearlessness. And nobody could see his hand trembling. He was an odd character, he knew that himself. Part of him was terrified, but another part was thrilled to the core at the savageness of this world which was a part of him. It was moments like these that he swore he would never find reasons to bind himself permanently to the land in any way. The ship was his home, the sea his soul.  
_

_Everything seemed to be in order, except for a torn sail on the mizzen-mast. He sighed, they would have to dock at the nearest port to have it mended or replaced. That would set them back a day. But then after tonight his men probably deserved a day on the land drinking to calm their nerves or to find a willing girl to soothe them. He supposed that announcement would make him popular._

_When everything calmed completely, he found that he did not want to return to his bed. Adrenaline was still pumping through him, so he climbed the main mast as nimbly as a feline and perched himself in the circular crow's nest and raised the binoculars he'd had hanging around his neck to his eyes. He would tend to the duty of the look-out for the next few hours. It was an errand far below his own position, but better to relieve the poor bugger who was supposed to be doing it, after such an exerting night._

_He watched the dawn in the next hour or so creep over the horizon and he smiled; it was his favourite part of the day, seeing a newly born morning. They would have to turn north to Jakarta…So much time wasted. They had just left the south of Indonesia, after purchasing goods to trade back in the United Kingdom. Cloves were a profitable commodity, coming from the Spice Islands. He was thinking about the accounts when something caught his attention. He leaned forward – more out of subconsciousness then actual need to see clearer. It looked like…A body…Floating on a broken plank of wood…_

"Man overboard!"

_Anthony dropped his binoculars and climbed out of the crow's nest, clambering down to the deck, calling out thunderously, "Man overboard! Man overboard! Veer to the right! Fitzgerald, tell Henderson at the helm to veer to the right! Man overboard!"_

_Was it one of his own men? Had he fallen from the ship during the storm? Had the boom pole thrown him into the water as the wind had caused it to move? Had he slipped off deck? No, no, that couldn't be. If somebody was not accounted for, somebody would have said something…The storm had been hours ago, an alarm would have been called and the body would have been swept far away, causing them to have been looking already...Surely!_

_When the ship had neared the mysterious lone being, Anthony ordered it to be anchored. He called out to the person loudly, "Hello! Can you hear me?"_

_The stranger must have been lost in the storm from another ship as neither he nor anybody else on board _The Bountiful _recognised him, but he was too weak to even lift up his head. Anthony instructed a few of his men to release a small boat and collect him._

_"Are you sure, lad?" a gnarly old man who was half bent with age asked, "Look at his clothes – he looks awful suspicious. Could be a pirate. The ungodly sea of Java is known to be treacherous!"_

_Anthony, already slighted at being called_ lad _even after proving himself in the storm, chose to not even turn his head to look at the man. He had to control his flaring temper as a few other men paused in their duty instead of following through his command, and he answered tersely, "The next man to question my orders will stay aboard when we next dock. I am sure a heartless sod like you Knightly, could leave a man to die in utter wretchedness from either sun stroke, starvation or to be mauled by sharks, but _I _could not. Unless there is a threat made against us,_ the Bountiful _is a merciful vessel. Do I make myself understood?"_

_At the threat of staying aboard on one of the rare times they could be on land, the men quickened their pace and in due time a few men rowed out, pulled the stranger into their small boat and returned to the ship, carrying him on board._

_Anthony stepped closer as the man was placed gently on deck. He was shivering severely from being ice-cold but panting as well, his arms feebly moving over his face to ward his sensitive eyes from the sun directly over them. Anthony gestured for the other curious men to step back, and he lowered himself on one knee beside the man, touching his arm gently._

_The man started, but it was a weak attempt. He looked as frail as a newborn kitten. Sobs erupted as if from the very pit of him, but no tears fell from his dark eyes. Anthony had to repress his troubled look at seeing a man in such a state. The figure was pale, his skin parched looking as if it barely stretched over his bone structure. He looked like a ghoul, with a mop of black tangled sodden hair, with one odd streak of white. His shirt and breeches were torn, and the soles of his feet were badly blistered and bloody, as if he had run for miles through thorny scrub, not even caring about his sensitive flesh being torn into scarlet ribbons. Anthony winced at the thought of the painful effects of the salt water on such wounds._

_"A canteen of water, pass me a canteen of water!" Anthony ordered and in a moment he was given one._

_He uncorked it, lowering it to give to the man, but the man moved his head away, his voice hoarse and rough as sandpaper as he mumbled, clearly in a fever, "Sasha…Sasha!"_

_"Shh," Anthony said quietly, "You are with friends now. You are safe, sir."_

_But the man whimpered, still repeating that name, "Sasha," and he cried, but still there were no tears._

_Anthony took one side of the man's face and held it as he poured some water down his throat, then he looked up at four of his men, "Take him to my cabin. He is severely dehydrated."_

_And he stood and watched as the men followed his orders. He sighed, they would have to find a harbour for more than one reason now, so much time would be wasted. He wondered where the man came from…_

_So much time would be wasted…_

* * *

He had stopped stroking Johanna's hair as he had delved more into this memory. Instead now, his face was buried in his hands as he thought about the demon he had saved. Johanna sat up slowly when he stopped his tale, and he could not help but blurt out, "I wish I had never laid eyes on him, I wish I had never been born with a heart, I wish I had listened to Knightly, oh I wish I had _never_ laid eyes upon _Mr. Todd. _I can't – I am _sorry_ Johanna, but I can't – you have no idea the pain it causes me to speak of him. I can't stomach it. You will have to be patient, I will tell you what I can, when I can. But I was _responsible_ for him – there is blood on my hands. He murdered people! I am a fool, all those men on my ship were right, I have no idea about life, about anything!"

Johanna stared at him, her blue eyes a pool of mystery as she reached out and moved his chin towards her, "please," she said softly, her voice hypnotic as she looked at him apologetically, "Please be brave for me, Anthony…You have started – you can't stop now. I _need _you to continue."

Anthony gazed back at her in wonder, as she moved to sit in his lap, cradling her head on his chest and nuzzling him with her cheek. Oh how _easy_ it was for her to manipulate him, even he knew that right then and there. But worse, he thought, as he obeyed and painfully continued on, how easy it was for _him_ not to _care_ that she was. Oh the gods had indeed made him their court jester the moment he was drawn to look upon Miss Johanna Barker!


	17. Chapter 17

Thank you very much booksroc and Vicki! Vicki, sorry about the italics...It's just for the memory flashbacks, promise.

This is my last chapter for a little bit. I shouldn't have even written this, I'm supposed to be cramming for a test.

So, pleeeeeeeeeeeease be kind as I'll be majorly stressing till Wednesday, and review. Pleeeeeeeeease. :)

**EDITED TO ADD: **Well, that was the weirdest thing to ever happen. Apparently I added the chapter, people who are on my alert list got emails, clicked on it and the chapter didn't come up. Hmm. So I've deleted it and put it back up to see if it works now.

* * *

**_Chapter Seventeen._**

And so Anthony Hope continued with his memories of Mr. Todd to the girl he held in his arms, thinking about them himself.

* * *

_It had been a long day. Every muscle and every part of Anthony ached. Sighing as he made his way into his cabin, he rubbed his lower back looking forward to a tumbler of gin. He had spent all day hurrying through Jakarta to organise a replacement for the mast and completing other such tedious errands that he may as well do while he had the chance to be on land. It was a city of whirlwind and colour. A sizzling, torrid city bursting at the seams with a mass of people roaming the streets. The smell of mie goreng, wood smoke and dried spices clung to his senses as he had manoeuvred his way through legions of people, gnawing away at the satay chicken skewered on a stick he had purchased from a street vendor. He had mopped his brow with his handkerchief, though it had been a pointless pursuit, as beads of sweat had crystallised once again on his forehead only mere moments after, from the extreme humidity of the tropical region. Oh, there was no denying he was a child of England, being used to bone chilling weather – even after being so well travelled, one never quite loses the body temperament one was born with._

_He had taken off his coat, folding it over his arm and had continued to search for a physician. It had been an odious affair. He had not been able to find a single, reputable doctor that was available to come at once. They had said to come back in the next few days. He needed to be gone by tonight! He couldn't just leave the man in a strange city while in such a vulnerable condition…Anthony had returned to the ship, thinking he could probably tend to a fever, dehydration and wounded feet by himself. The man once on the mend could either stop at the next port and return to wherever he came from or he could stay with them till they reached London, their final destination. He had only heard him speak sparsely, but he had sounded English._

_He nodded to one of the men who had taken rounds to tend to the stranger, clapped him on the shoulder and told him to enjoy his last few hours of leisure._

_"He's been saying strange things," the man said just before he stepped out._

_"Yes," Anthony replied, "Men in feverished dreams often do. You may take your leave."_

_When the man had done so, Anthony sat beside the bed, gazing at this stranger he had rescued. He was sleeping, his face tilted to the side and he looked gaunt…And as sentimentally trite as it sounded, he looked haunted, even as he slumbered. Anthony looked down at the man's feet and gently took a look at underneath the bandages they had wound around his wounds._

_He needed that gin._

_He walked over to his desk and pulled out a bottle and a tumbler, pouring himself a drink. He downed it, then poured himself another and when he had finished with that he rested the glass_ _against his forehead, savouring the small bit of coolness._

_"Sasha…"_

_He looked back at the man. He was calling that name again._

_"Sasha…Christ, I'm sorry…"_

_The man whimpered and Anthony moved back over, touching his shoulder comfortingly to soothe whatever troubled dreams he was having. His eyes opened at the touch, but he did not seem to properly waken, as noises continued to come from him, not that dissimilar to an unsettled dog._

_"My name is Anthony Hope," Anthony murmured, "You are on_ the Bountiful_, a merchant ship. You are safe, sir," he took the opportunity of the man being awake to fill a glass of water and draw it to the man's lips, tipping it up so the liquid would be swallowed. He had instructed his men to do so every so often whenever they could. The stranger would have had his share of salt water go through his system, he needed to replenish himself._

_At the soothing tone of Anthony's voice, the stranger closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep after all the water had been consumed._

_Anthony went over to his desk and sat down to sort through accounts. He took his quill, dipped it in ink and scratched away at the parchment, muttering to himself numbers he needed to record. He was lost in his own world of tallies and balances when the man cried out in anguish, writhing underneath the layers of blankets enveloped around him, still asleep, whining, "No…_No_, I did not…Did not…_Never _touched her…Sir, please…Oh God…Don't make me go back…Belong here…I belong here…In this house…Ser – serving you…So hot out there…I didn't…Never touched her! Beseech…I_ beseech _y-your mercy, Sir! Don't…I won't…Can't surv…Survive that Hell!"_

_Anthony had been so startled by this outburst, the nib of his quill broke and the blue ink stained his formerly unblemished parchment like a blot of navy blood. He scraped his chair back and moved over quickly, gently waking the man. His eyes snapped open, and he grabbed onto Anthony's coat with a strength that belied the illness wreaking havoc through his body. But that strength was for only a fleeting moment and he fell back, shuddering from the exertion and muttering apology after apology…But Anthony knew the apology wasn't directed at him, but at the imagined figure this delusional man thought him to be, and he continued begging an unknown person called Sasha to help him._

_Anthony sighed when the man seemed to calm down and he dropped down on the seat beside the bed. With his palm he then gently placed it on the man's forehead – he was hot…Anthony knew he had been freezing when they had found him due to being on the seas, but due to his dehydration he knew he had to remove some of the blankets and cool him down. He should probably hire a local girl to tend to the man, being so busy himself with his duties, but that would add cost with another mouth to feed and with a woman being on board with so many men – it was not worth the trouble in the slightest._

_After he had removed some blankets he took a bowl from the bedside table. It was filled with water with a teaspoon of lime juice, another of sugar and a pinch of salt. The man was now lucid enough to sip some. Ever since Anthony had checked his temperature he had seemed to calm a little, although he wasn't completely rational as he murmured longingly from time to time for a_ Lucy…Dear Lucy…

_He mumbled a little more nonsense, his head moving about from side to side, but no hysteria was in his words, only sorrowful pleading. It seemed this Lucy had bubbled up a whole new ordeal as he said, "Lucy...Lucy...Mrs. Lovett - I told her...Told...To hide them...Will help my Lucy...I-if she sells them...Real silver...Lucy's wedding gift t-t-to me...I told her d-d-don't be silly...Needn't have gotten...Me gift...She laughed...Sweet girl...If - if she sells them...Fetch a pretty price...Begged Mrs. Lovett to give them...To her...Sh-she'll get by f-for a l-little while...They'll support her...Real silver...Real, real...They've taken ev-everything...But if she hides them, they'll be safe..." for the first time, real tears blurred the stranger's vision, "Mrs Lovett -- I don't know wh-what's going t-to happ-happen to me...But you must t-t-take care of my Lucy...My beauti-ti-ful girl...Pl-please...They're real silver, th-they'll help her...Please - oh, y-you-you're a good...Good, k-k-ind woma-woman...Eve-everything w-will be s-sorted s-soon...My d-dear, sweet...Lucy..." and then there were no more words._

_It would be a_ long _rest of the day._

* * *

_It had been a day or two before the stranger seemed to return to what Anthony assumed was his normal self. His voice while in his fevered delusions had been high and almost naïve, was now deep and morose. He was grateful, very grateful to Anthony and assured him he would repay his kindness and work on the ship like any other man to pay for his passage to London once he was better, but he was not a happy creature._

_He had told him his name was Sweeney Todd, his dark eyes flickering to Anthony defensively as if he would question that. But Anthony did not, and so that seemed to satisfy him. He would not tell Anthony of his past and he seemed too weak for Anthony to press him._

_Anthony enjoyed his company. He seemed an educated and articulate man, and while Anthony was not egotistical, it was pleasant to speak to a like-minded person. The ship was full of labourers, there was barely a scholar. And Mr. Todd respected him, something Anthony dearly craved. He never brought up his young age, accepting his unusual high-command without question, except for once when he had stated almost regretfully, "You remind me a great deal of myself, Anthony, when I was your age…Be on your guard, lad." For the first time Anthony felt no resentment at the term_ lad_._

_A collection of books lay on the table for Mr. Todd's use. Anthony had his own small library in his cabin, stacks of leather bound classics that had the intoxicating smell all old books have. Mr. Todd had spent hours reading, devouring them as if he had not read in_ years_. Which of course, Anthony thought, was a silly notion._

_Mr. Todd was a strange man though – he had never even heard of the famous author Alexandre Dumas, who had been famous for at least a decade!_ Everybody _was talking about him!_

_"He's French," Anthony pulled a face and laughed, "But his work is brilliant, so we'll ignore that mark against him. I'm reading_ the Three Musketeers _right now, it's awfully good, but my favourite with no doubt is his latest –_ the Count of Monte Cristo!"

_Mr. Todd looked at him curiously, "What is it about?"_

_Anthony began to excitedly explain, "It is an adventure novel about a young man called Edmund Dantes. I don't want to give away anything as you really should read it, but he was accused of a crime he did not commit – being a Bonapartist traitor – and was forced in imprisonment, where he stayed for fourteen years –"_

"Enough!"

_Anthony stopped in puzzlement, his excitement subdued, as Mr. Todd's hands wavered to his head, "Please…Forgive me – I am so tired…I must rest…"_

_"Yes, yes of course," Anthony hurried to placate him, and stood, "I am sorry, I do natter away…"_

_He left the cabin thoughtfully, but then continued with errands that needed to be tended to, and soon that odd occasion faded away to a trivial memory._

* * *

_A fortnight passed away on the high seas, and now Mr. Todd seemed to be completely on the mend. He was as good as his word and worked alongside the other men as much as he could. His feet seemed to heal as much as his health. His quietness seemed to unsettle the others, but as usual Anthony ignored them. He knew Mr. Todd was nobody to be feared. Something in his past just troubled him; that was all. And didn't most men have something from their past they wished they could forget?_

_Anthony was pacing the deck one night when he saw a shadow looking over into the black waves. The only light seemed to be from the burnt orange embers of Mr. Todd's cigarette, and Anthony quietly joined him. He knew enough about the man's personality to know when he wanted quiet, and they both shared the silence between them._

_Till Mr. Todd said quietly, his usually melancholy voice quite shaky, "Where are you from Anthony?"_

_"Cornwall," Anthony answered, "It is a seaside county, the south-west of –"_

_"Yes, I know," Mr. Todd interrupted, but not unkindly, "It seems you were born with the sea then, being from such a place…Were you happy, Anthony?"_

_Anthony smiled slightly, "Too happy. I had a blessed childhood."_

_There was silence for a few minutes, with only the sound of the calm waves slapping against the ship, and on the other end of the vessel the distant sounds of men singing and laughing happily to an accordion. Mr. Todd never socialised with the other men, only tolerating Anthony's company._

_"Please Anthony, my mind is troubled. Tell me about your blessed life in Cornwall. Is there a pretty lass waiting for you to return to her?" _

_"Troubled, Sir?" Anthony asked concerned, "Are you alright?"_

_Mr. Todd did not answer and there was an awkward silence._

_Anthony sighed and began talking, "I had an unremarkable upbringing, with as much drama as any family, but happier than most. My mother is a seamstress – she creates beautiful wedding gowns out of crystals and venetian lace - she's had young brides-to-be even make the trip from London to be fitted and see her designs. She has the Midas touch when it comes to sewing and embroidery…My father is an accountant, and spends a lot of his time in London. He is a good man, he paid for my education and supported me with my dreams of sailing…I never really saw him much growing up though – my Uncle, my mother's twin, he is more my father. Oh how I wanted to be him as a child. He would sail away and return with such treasures. We are not the wealthiest family, but if you see our house – it is filled with such things that would deceive people into thinking we are. We have a vase from the Orient, Persian rugs, glass ornaments from Venice. And he would tell me stories of adventure – I wanted that life, ever since I could remember. It seemed to be so freeing…He had the whole world in the palm of his hand," Anthony paused a moment in his tale, as if he was trying to capture again that new longing of a small boy for adventure._

_"Go on," Mr. Todd looked at him pleadingly, "Continue. You have parents, an uncle…Do you have any siblings?"_

_Anthony stared ahead as he continued, "Five sisters…One older sister, Harriet – married of course. Harriet has three sons…I would imagine she would have another child by now…I have a twin, Bridget, older by three minutes and she never lets me forget it – we are so alike, it's as if we can read each other's thoughts. She sings and plays the harp – well, we both sing. My mother is musical you see, we get it from her I suppose. Bridget, dear Bridget, how I miss her terribly. Then I have three younger sisters. Evelyn who orders me to buy her every single pretty trinket I find abroad, Catherine who climbs trees and scrapes her knees like any boy and Penny – my youngest…I don't think she's forgiven me for leaving Cornwall. I helped deliver her you see – she was born on a night where the physician could not get to us on time, I was only ten or eleven but I was the only one who could help. She came too early and too fast – she slid into my hands like a hurricane…Dear, sweet Penny, she became my shadow ever after. Mother was very weak after her birth and the Doctor instructed my father there should be no more children, and for the first few weeks my sisters and I cared for her around the clock. Because she was born too early she has always been quite delicate, and because of this she is shy to a fault. But she is a jealous spitfire when she wants to be. She's a lovely little girl, but I fear we have all spoiled her with attention – as pathetic as it sounds, Bridget is the other half of my soul being my twin, but Penny…Penny is my heart."_

_Anthony was awfully embarrassed by revealing such truths, but Mr. Todd was quiet, his eyes closed as if he was drinking in this happiness that he seemed to be deprived of._

_"I would like to meet this happy family of yours one day, Anthony," he murmured, then pressed him more, "You are a young man. Surely there must be_ some _woman waiting for you."_

_Anthony laughed at this, "I do have a friend. Leah. But she is as much my sibling as my other sisters. I…I never made time for romance, Mr. Todd."_

_"Oh?" was Mr. Todd's reply._

_"I always knew my life was destined for more than Cornwall," Anthony tried to explain, "And I intentionally avoided any ties that would bind me there. I had a friend you see…Well, I still do. He was a friend from school – far more intelligent than I. He was an intellect – language, philosophy, mathematics, literature, you name it, he excelled in. Our teachers expected him to go far in any field he chose, he was Cornwall's darling. And he was lucky, he was accepted to study at_ Oxford! _Can you_ imagine _it? And a family friend from wealth offered to pay for his studies…Everything seemed so bright for him…But one foolish short-lived love affair and he got a girl pregnant while unmarried – he did the decent thing of course - not every man would - he was no cad…But he paid for it, Mr. Todd. The shame of it caused the wealthy friend to retract his offer of financial support and he had to cease all other possible ambitions to work and take care of his new family. His dreams of Oxford and greatness are in ruins as he works to care for his now bride and his child. And he does not love her – a Summer of infatuation ruined him completely. And she does not love him either. I can only hope he has learned to love his child by now at least, I haven't heard from him since I last left four years ago. He is a good man, but he could have done so well, I'm sure working a trade must be a bitter pill for him to swallow when everybody used to wager that he could have possibly led the country one day. No, Mr. Todd, I swore I would never make such a mistake."_

_Mr. Todd said nothing, and from that silence the conversation ended, and both men stood looking out to sea._

* * *

"He was my friend," Anthony murmured in Johanna's ear after he had told her what he deemed she needed to know from those memories, "I believed…I believed he was my friend."

Johanna leant against him, saying nothing, but rewarded him by pressing his hand to her mouth in a grateful kiss.

Anthony sighed deeply, and they both stood from the floor. Anthony had to repress a grunt of pain from the numbness in his leg from sitting in that particular position, but he smiled at Johanna nonetheless, and said resignedly, "And now I think we have avoided it long enough. I'm so sorry, my Johanna, but we really must go to the police."

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

Thank you xxlindazzz. Haha, I didn't think of that nursery rhyme, but there was something about the rhyming trees and knees which bugged me a bit, but I couldn't change it!

Okay, I SWEAR this is my last chapter before my test...Oh, I _really _shouldn't have written this..

* * *

**_Chapter Eighteen._**

Sanders was aware that the sound of his boots stomping around the floor was irritating the tavern girl as she was working and he smirked as he looked out the window, though inwardly he was so frustrated and impatient there was nothing really to be smug about. He took out his pocket watch, looked at the time, then placed it back in his waistcoat pocket. _Ridiculous, bleedin' ridiculous _he thought to himself and began pacing again. Would they hurry up and come down already? Did they have _any _idea of the _magnitude_ of this situation? He would have to use every tactic to not have them thrown in a cell, all of London was under such hysteria. They needed to go _now._

He turned to stomp up the stairs but the tavern girl caught his gaze and shook her head slightly. He grimaced at her, ready to ignore her and continue on his way but as he moved past her she took his arm, "Give them a bit of time, Mr. Sanders. Just a bit more. Whatever has happened, Mr. Hope was obviously distressed."

"O' course he was distressed," Sanders muttered, but sat down at the bar anyway, "He's as week as piss. He'd jump at shadows."

The girl had her hands positioned on her dainty hips as she looked at him for a moment, a pretty frown on her face. Good God, only _women_ could make a frown _pretty_. Must have learned that look from her mother – or an evil aunt. She turned back to what she had been doing - pouring cups of flour into a bowl, "You don't give him enough credit. He's a sweet thing, to be sure, but if what the papers say is true, he has a pretty high position on that ship of his. The sea is not a place for the fragile."

Sanders didn't say anything about _that _but he watched the back of her for a moment, before saying grumpily, "What are yeh making anyway?"

"Potato spice cake," she answered, not turning back.

He pulled a face at that, and even though she could not see his expression she added rather smugly, "Ah, you doubt me? Yet you're the one who gobbled breakfast down awful quick earlier this morning."

He shrugged, but added, "Yeh have some cake I could eat now?"

"No," she replied, "But if you come back later after seeing the police, this will be ready, and I can offer that if you don't want seconds of this you don't have to pay for the first piece."

Sanders snickered at this, "What if I lie and say I don' like it, even if I do? Then I'll still have the piece of cake for no charge."

She turned to him then, raising a brow, "Trust me, Mr. Sanders, you won't be lying. You'll be too busy wanting another piece."

"Yeh're _that _good, are yeh?"

She nodded with a wink, and Sanders smiled back, but from the streak of flour that was on her cheek she was not aware of, and not from her confidence. A little encouraged by this unexpected smile she brought the bowl to where he was and asked, "How long exactly was he outside for, anyway?"

"'Bout an hour, I'd say," Sanders shrugged, and lit a cigarette, puffing on it, "And every added minute wasted is another nail on their coffin if they don' hurry themselves up."

Laura continued with her work thoughtfully, then asked musingly, "Are you going to talk to him later?"

Sanders snorted at this, "Concerning _what? _I ain't the boy's father!"

"If you are, someone did something very illegal," Laura pointed out.

Sanders laughed heartily at that, then took a deep breath of his cigarette, "Oh, yeh're a funny woman, yeh are."

Laura smirked a little but did not join his laughter as she tried to press him, "Well – why exactly is he in this state? I mean, I understand about what could possibly be facing him, but the way he looked at her – and then ran out of the room. It really upset the poor girl. What did he find out?"

Sanders shrugged, "Damned if I know."

"I think you're lying," she looked at him sharply, "You know very well what's going on."

"Yes," Sanders exhaled a trail of smoke almost triumphantly, "But none o' this concerns yeh now, does it? _Confidentiality_ yeh see – that's a big word for a common girl like yeh, but it means _I ain't saying a thing."_

There was a moment's silence, and Laura's frown deepened, "I don't like this business. Not one bit – the old bastard's dead – they're going to pin it on Mr. Hope, I know they are. Conspiracy with murder or some such nonsense. You know that boy? That young Tobias – I think that's what his name is. They say he might be facing the gallows…Gives me chills, it does, a poor little boy caught up in such a mess…Though, they say he's mad – wouldn't stop screaming after he was taken into custody, or so they say. Maybe insanity will help him…"

She looked at him with such hope that it caught Sanders off guard. What did she want from him? That he would nod and agree? That there was a chance the little bugger would escape unscathed? He couldn't promise that!

So he asked her instead as casually as he could, changing the subject, "And how was the girl when yeh left her?"

"The girl? _Oh_ – Miss Barker. Sitting by the window when I left the room – her spirits were dampened. She doesn't understand why he suddenly went all quiet on her when he had been so smitten up until now."

Sanders sneered at that inwardly. The boy had found out the truth and now he's as white as a ghost and probably up there abandoning her, in spite of the cheek he had displayed to Sanders before venturing upstairs…The bloody weakling. It wasn't out of any liking for the boy he would continue to help him, but just from a hatred he had always had, of injustice. It concerned him to the core that there could be a court that could abuse power…Could punish a man for a crime he did not commit just to save face or for their own purposes. Knowledge was power, that is why he had chosen law as a career, to give back to the people some sort of power. Poor Benjamin Barker – that is what happens when men manipulate the law. They drive good men to madness, and then there were bloody murders as a consequence. But still high authorities did not learn their lesson – still they wanted to sweep things under rugs. It was a disgusting cycle – that boy has no idea just how close he is to meeting a similar fate as Benjamin Barker. Only this time, he wouldn't be sent away to Australia, it would be the gallows.

"And what did yeh tell her?" he forced himself to stop dwelling on the horrors of the London legal system.

"I told her he's probably just anxious and nervous over their having to go to the police to sort this matter out. She seemed to accept it but... She's obviously still hurting," Laura finished with what she was doing for a moment and leant forward, resting her elbows on the counter and her face in her hands and made a deep sigh.

Sanders looked at her awkwardly, "What?"

"Oh, just wondering what it must be like having a love that strong."

Sanders was so taken aback by such a statement he choked on his smoke and wheezed as he was laughing so hard, "Yeh –" he coughed hard, "Yeh call what _they _have _love?"_

Laura did not seem perturbed in the slightest at his sudden outburst but answered simply, "Has to be, otherwise they wouldn't both be hurting this badly."

Sanders continued clearing his throat and after he had completely composed himself, he answered sourly, "She's not hurting badly. She's just – not known a lot of people in her life, being caged in such a manner. He offered her freedom; she's just fond of him. It ain't _love. _And as for _him _– the boy didn' even know what went under a dress, he's just craving for some –" he stopped at the look on her face and smiled sarcastically, "Love of a less _noble _kind and has convinced himself it's pure because – because – oh I don't know, the sod's mother read him too many fairytales growing up."

She rolled her eyes at that, "He risked everything to rescue her – seems a bit more than a male wanting a quick tumble in bed. And as for _her _– what difference would that make, not knowing a lot of people? A girl from a small village can just as easily have her heart torn as someone in a large city –"

"Dear _God _woman, yeh're all the bleedin' same! Torn hearts? Bleedin' bloody hell!" Sanders looked at her aghast and Laura was about to respond when the bell on the door tinkled and a woman stepped in the door, holding a boy, around two or three in her arms.

Laura's face immediately brightened and ignoring Sanders she immediately rushed from behind the bar and all but ran to the visitor. The little boy gurgled and waved his arms about, an ivory chess piece – was it a knight? – in his chubby little fist. Laura took the boy from the woman, thanking her and said, "I'll see you after dinner hour, then?" and then kissed the little boy all over, inciting him into a fit of giggles. When the woman left, Laura returned, plopping the boy on to the bar, "Would you like a piece of cake, Jacob?"

_"Cake?" _Sanders spluttered as she dished a slab of chocolate cake on to a plate for the wee chap, "Yeh said there was none left!"

"None for you, I've been saving this for Jacob," she answered in a no-nonsense tone.

"Well, that's lovely. And who might this Jacob be?" Sanders retorted, thoroughly disgusted at the child who was just as intent as sucking on the chess piece as much as eating the cake.

Laura was careful to answer Sanders, not looking at him as she answered sharply with a tone that demanded no nonsense in return, "Jacob is my son."

Sanders' eyes flickered to her hand where just as he thought, she had no ring. It then flickered back to her face, which was still looking at the small boy devotedly; while combing her fingers through his charcoal coloured hair.

Her intent gaze upon her son and refusal to look at Sanders was all the explanation he needed about the situation concerning her boy, added to the obvious absence of a wedding ring, and he grabbed a chunk of the piece of cake she had given to the boy and popped the moist morsel into his mouth (_damn, she _is _good at cooking!) _as he stood, and before he started pacing the floorboards again in wait of Jo and that idiot, he muttered, "Well, yeh'd better bleedin' wash yehr hands after touching the brat, before yeh go back to cooking if yeh expect me to eat it later. I don't know where the child has been."

And he continued his pacing, ignoring the sounds of the tavern girl singing jovially to her bastard child, sorting ways through his mind about how he would go about defending the pair. His mind was lost in thoughts and he was not aware of Laura trotting up the stairs and in awhile Anthony and Johanna finally coming down till Johanna was touching his arm lightly and Anthony was out on the street hailing a hansom to escort them to the station.

With his tongue, he flicked the remainder of a cake crumb from the back of a tooth, savouring the sweetness for one last moment, and then swallowed. That Laura _was_ a damned good cook.


	19. Chapter 19

Ha, thank you everybody! Thank you indeed!

I've been having trouble writing more…So I just wrote this short little chapter. Hope you like. I'll be on track soon enough, I just have to figure stuff out. Be patient with me. I need to change the title of this story too – _Paper Flowers_ was the title when it was going on a completely different track…Hmmm, but I'm stuck with that…I'm still uncertain juuuust exactly where this story's going...Blame Vicki...

Thank you xxlindazzz – haha, very true with the food to a man's heart thing.

Thank you booksroc!

Hehe, BeBopALula, thank you. Aww, Sanders isn't a prick, he's just…Well, yes, he's a prick, hehehe, I can't defend him. Hopefully a certain somebody might just soften him a bit. Not change him completely, mind…But I'm not saying more on that.

Aww Ravencaller…Hope things are okay now…Thank you!

Vicki…Thank you – but I have no words…I'm still undecided…Still fighting it…Ahh…

Thank you!

* * *

**_Chapter Nineteen._**

The dread in the hansom was palpable and thick, in fact, so thick, if it could have taken physical form Laura (if she had been there with them), could have cut it with a cake knife. Anthony was fidgety and full of nerves, but Johanna just sat there beside him, pale and withdrawn, her hands clasped neatly on her lap. Sanders was the same, with his arms folded, staring blankly out the window except for a thoughtful scowl. This deepened when Anthony, due to his nerves, began tapping his fingers against his seat to a tune only he could hear. This ended however when Sanders' scowl became directed at him with a single word, _"Don't." _

Anthony stopped.

He was aware that he was venturing into uncertain territory. He was innocent, there was nothing to be afraid of, but he was still terrified. How could it be possible that he had become so tangled in such a mess? All he had wanted to do was to rescue a lonely girl…

"Anthony."

Anthony looked up as Sanders seemed to glare at him with his one revealed eye and he waited for him to say whatever it was on his mind. He waited, though his curiosity was stirred a little when it seemed the uncaring lawyer seemed to be fighting a look of concern for him as he growled, "Have yeh written to yehr home?"

For a moment Anthony was confused as he wondered why he would have written to his ship, till he said _"Oh!" _realising Sanders meant his family, and he paused for only a moment, "Well – no – I don't want to worry them, you see, I –"

"How long have yeh been at sea?" Sanders interrupted him, "A year or so, yes?"

"Oh…Well…I've been away from home four years," Anthony laughed a little in spite of his nerves, "I can't believe it's been so long myself, I shan't expect I will recognise anybody when I return –"

It seemed however that Sanders had no interest in the ramblings of this young sailor for the home he had left, as he took his cane and rapped upon the roof of the hansom, ordering the driver to stop at once. Johanna seemed to come out of her daze as she realised they were stopping. She took Anthony's hand tightly, "Are we at the police headquarters already?"

"No, Jo," Sanders answered kindly, "We're just taking a break. Don't concern yehrself, I just need to show Anthony something. We'll only be a moment, dear."

With that obtuse explanation he smiled, though he took Anthony's arm rather roughly and shoved him out of the carriage, then followed behind him.

"What the _devil_ are you doi –" Anthony spluttered.

But Sanders hissed in his ear, "Don't make a fuss, yeh idiot, just come with me," and he had no choice but to allow the lawyer to direct his path.

They did not walk for long however until Sanders stopped him by a young boy selling newspapers. The young boy with sandy hair poking out from underneath a large cap, smiled at Sanders with an air of triumph, "Yeh foun' 'im, Sanders?"

"Bloody right I did," Sanders smiled at the young one and with a flourish pulled out a gold coin as if from nowhere, and gave it to the lad.

The boy spat on it, rubbing it against his coat, then examined it disappointedly, "A guinea?" he said, looking up at Sanders.

"Yeh told me where he was, yeh didn' giftwrap and deliver him to me, did yeh?" Sanders retorted.

Anthony looked at Sanders confused, and the boy laughed easily, "'E's a simple one, isn' 'e? Are yeh sure 'e runs that big ship?"

Sanders laughed, and explained, "The little brat told me where yeh were. These newspaper boys, they see everythin' that happens in the streets. He recognised yeh from the paper and he knew I was lookin' out for yeh. He always helps me, he does."

"…Oh…" Anthony replied to this slowly, and laughed quietly, "I suppose I wasn't as well hidden as I thought."

"Suppose not," Sanders sneered a little, but pulled a newspaper from the bundle telling the boy to "shut yehr mouth" when the boy protested with a "yeh better pay for that!" and thrust it at Anthony's chest.

Anthony took it obligingly, and went to ask what he would want it for when his eyes caught the front headline, **"ANTHONY HOPE, TOP SUSPECT IN CONSPIRING THE FLEET STREET MURDERS, WANTED FOR KILLING OF MURDERED JUDGE'S WARD"**

Anthony had never felt so sick in such a rush and the paper fluttered to the ground as he stared at Sanders in horrified disbelief, "Murdered – but – but – but –"

"Yes, I _know," _Sanders replied with a glower, "Johanna's not dead. But this is what came of yeh runnin' away with her. The press are pissing themselves in excitement with all these rumours. It's a journalist's dream!"

Anthony had to lower himself on the stack of newspapers, and he sat with a thump, clutching his stomach, "This is all a nightmare."

"Mm," Sanders crouched down in front of him, and said gently, asking the same question from inside the hansom, "Again I ask – have yeh written to yehr home?"

"My…My home – what has home got to do with this?" Anthony scrubbed at his eyes which were beginning to tear up.

"Just…Seems an awful long time for yeh to be away from yehr home – _four years ­_– yehr mother must be missing yeh terribly. Yeh seem like a lad who's come from a happy family, yes? And – and the first thing they hear about yeh after so long – is that yehr a suspect in a murder conspiracy, and yeh've murdered a young woman…Seems an awful shock for them, don' it?" he paused and gestured to his eyepatch, "When I first hurt my eye – my mother was beside herself. She had to work yeh see – long, long days to provide for me. She wasn' home when I hurt myself – that's life, yeh know? But she always bore this silly guilt, that this was her fault. Which of course it wasn't – how could she have known such a thing would happen? She had to work, otherwise we wouldn' have been able to eat. Mothers worry too much…If we go to the police, I'll help yeh of course as I swore – but somethin' like this could take eons. What if I just take Miss Jo and sort this out myself, yes? I can easily clear yehr name without yeh – it might be easier too. If they have yeh there they have to do _somethin'_ – and the press – they can be bastards…Vicious vultures who hinder cases more than help…Yeh might even harm Johanna, yeh know – I understand yehr fond of the girl, and yeh've done a valiant job in trying to keep her safe – but don't yeh see what yeh've done?"

Anthony looked at him blankly, and Sanders sighed, "Think about it – a young, handsome sailor convinces the innocent, pretty, bastard ward of a _benevolent _man of power who provided her with every necessity and luxury, to run away with him. Never mind that he kept her as a prisoner, never mind she was _miserable_ – the people don't want the truth…They'll label her a whore – all sorts of nasty names…"

Anthony was aware of the cold all of a sudden, as the air bit at his flesh, like a nuisance dog. He folded his arms to ward himself from the breeze and seemed to mull this over, not saying a word.

Sanders swallowed and then murmured, "I wouldn't…I wouldn't think yeh a coward if yeh went back home, lad…I really, really wouldn't. I know yeh're a _good_ man."

Anthony's eyes flickered to him steadfast, and he nodded, as he stood, "You're right."

Sanders stood as well, "Oh?"

"Yes," Anthony nodded, "I should write to my mother. I'll do that the moment after I speak to the police. I'll send a telegram – though I wonder if my father is here in London…" he smiled, and hit Sanders arm half playfully while he stared at Anthony with an emotionless stare, "Oh, you _are _brilliant at your craft. If I had half the love I have for Johanna, you would have convinced me completely. Silver-tongued Sanders, the papers didn't lie with _that _title_. _That was superb – for a moment, I really believed…Such effort on your part! Oh, _bravo!" _then he tossed the newspaper boy two more guineas, and he drew back to the carriage, laughing fervidly, "Oh, I feel much better now. Thank you very much! I have nothing to worry about with you aiding us, one could call you an _artist _with what you do."

Sanders stood there for a moment, completely at a loss to how his recital had failed him so miserably.

"'E's not as simple as I thought –" the newspaper boy began.

But Sanders interrupted him roughly, "Shut yehr mouth, yehr insolent brat," and scowling, he followed Anthony back to the carriage.


	20. Chapter 20

Haha, thank you Ravencaller and Vicki very much!

xxlindazzz – hehe, you're right about _that._

Thank you BeBopALula! Glad you like the dynamic.

Booksroc, that's right, you were supposed to find it amusing, haha, at least, writing it amused me anyway. I'm really, really sorry, I tried finishing a chapter for your birthday – I wrote three pages that's completely different to this and it was just crap and I wasn't feeling it. I got really pissed off, and I had to start again today. But I hope you had a FANFRIGGINTASTIC birthday!

Thank you, you guys!

Sorry this chapter's not the most exciting, but I kind of need it to unravel future events.

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty._**

The frazzled Constable looked up from his cluttered desk the moment the door of the police headquarters was opened and inwardly groaned when that lawyer _Dane Sanders _of _all_ people strutted in with his usual air of arrogance. Oh, the Lord have mercy – today of all days too! He was inundated with so much work – trying to find out the cretin who had leaked classified information about the Fleet Street murders to the press. _He _was the scapegoat for _that, _being a correspondant to the newspapers! Not to mention he had had to ban the sister of the main suspect from ever stepping foot in here again – the young Miss Bridget Hope had been quite a spitfire, demanding vehemently that she be sent for at once the moment news became known about her brother, the sailor. Most families would be ashamed that their kin could be involved in such a heinous crime, but she was so adamant that he was innocent – although, that was hardly abnormal, most families did maintain the innocence of criminals when they were their loved ones.

His gaze met a colleague of his who sighed and gestured towards the lawyer and the Constable nodded, standing up resignedly.

"Sanders," he called out and pleased he had been noticed the lawyer meandered over.

"Sanders, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at your home where you should be? You know you have been suspended."

"Yes, that I do, there's no need for yeh to remind me," Sanders answered in his rough accent.

How on earth Sanders had risen from the life of a poor gutter rat to being one of London's finest lawyers, the Constable would never know. Apparently a wealthy benefactor had paid for his education - it was obvious the man was not _born _from privilege. It was almost as if the man was _proud _of his meagre beginnings – he always had that smirk upon him as if he enjoyed the fact he was far more intelligent than his colleagues who had been born into wealth. He was certain the man over exaggerated his coarse accent, though, maybe that was part of his act of smug mockery to the wealth. That he was just as good as them but had come from considerably less and had risen easily in ranks only due to his ability and not connections. _That_ was rare indeed.

"Well, what are you doing here? I'm awfully busy," the constable motioned to the paperwork before him.

Sanders smiled and for a moment the constable realised he preferred the man's smirk which he had been slandering moments before in his mind, "Constable Charlston, yes? Would yeh mind stepping out with me? I won't take yeh long from yehr duties, but what I have to say – and show yeh – is very valuable…"

The Constable sighed, taking a look at his pocket watch. He had heard rumours of the long-winded summations this man could create as if on a whim when he was in court – perhaps it would serve him best if he just did as the lawyer wanted. That way Sanders would go away quicker and he could return to sorting out how to resolve the issues with the leaked information – his superiors were blaming him as it was for this blunder…

"Alright, fine," he sighed and stood and Sanders clapped him on the back a bit too triumphantly for the constable's liking. He was too conceited for his own good.

Constable Charlston followed him resignedly out the building and they walked a few paces down the street before Sanders pondered aloud, "Bleedin' press, hmm? I would wager yehr taking the brunt of all the blame, with the newspapers finding out it's believed Johanna Barker was murdered, too? What with yeh being a spokesperson to the reporters."

"Sanders, do you have a point? I do have a job to do –" Constable Charlston seethed.

Sanders patted his shoulder consolingly, "Now, now, don't yeh get all flustered, I'm just making conversation. I don't think it fair at all that yeh have been lumbered with the blame. After all – yeh know the dirty tactics journalists can resort to when trying to find out information, it can have nothing to do with the fault of a police officer more often than not," he coughed then and muttered as if it were an after-thought, "And how easy it is for a _lawyer_ to find out things too."

Constable Charlston blinked – he was not the most quick witted of men, but he knew when something smelled fishy and he glowered at Sanders, "What on _earth _are you insinuating –"

"I'm not insinuating anything!" Sanders threw up his hands defensively, "Not insinuating _anything_…But yeh're in a lot of hot water at the moment, aren't yeh? This won't look good at all on yehr record – that all yeh did for this case which is one of the most heinous and important for decades was to let somethin' slip to the press – the police's secret belief that poor Miss Barker had been murdered herself. All that fear bubbling to the surface – the public didn' need to know any more – they're already tearing their hair out over what that Sweeney Todd did to them. Masses of innocent men _slaughtered _like pigs – yeh police, yeh wanted yehr new theory about that sailor as another killer that yeh fellows have not caught yet, kept secret, didn't yeh? It'll cause further panic now that people have realised yeh still can't do yehr job and keep them safe while the sailor creeps around, possibly as deranged as that Sweeney Todd. Who knows who else could be dead next? So much pressure yeh whole police force is under!"

_"You found out and disclosed to the public that we suspected Anthony Hope of murdering Judge Turpin's ward? What, are you mad? Do you realise I'm going to have to arrest you – your –"_

"That's good," Sanders wasn't perturbed at all by the man's spluttering, "Yeh've caught on. Oh, but come now, yeh couldn't think I was admitting all this to lessen the burden of my soiled soul. _Think _yeh fool – why the hell would I be telling yeh this? Why the hell would I have even done it in the first place?"

Constable Charlston's face darkened and he folded his arms, "What is it that you _want,_ Sanders?"

Sanders thought for awhile before answering carefully, "Heed my words, Constable, for in the end yeh'll benefit from this, as much as I will," he paused then continued, "I can pull yeh out of the mess yeh're in right now. I can even be responsible for yeh gettin' a promotion, yeh could be hailed as some kind of hero. I can have yeh deliver Anthony Hope to yehr superiors. And I can give yeh the _real_ identity of Sweeney Todd to help with yehr investigation."

The Constable's arms dropped to his sides in shock, "You have just admitted you _know_ the _whereabouts_ of _London__'s top suspect _and you're trying to – to – feed your own agenda by _bribing_ me? I could have you arrested –"

Sanders laughed merrily, "Ah, good. I have yeh. Yeh fool, yeh gave yehrself away the moment yeh said _could. _Yeh _could _have me arrested? Oh no, yeh know as well as I do yeh're hungry for that promotion and for the blame on yehr shoulders to be forgotten about. Sure I got yeh into trouble for that information being leaked, but yeh know as well as I that the possible rewards for yehrself outweigh any discomfort yeh've been put through because of it. I'll give yeh those things in return for the following. I want yeh to help me drop my court suspension. Yeh can vouch for me when yeh're in yehr superior's good graces and they can speak to the appropriate powers that be – it won' be a hard thing to do, everybody knows it was horseshit to begin with. And then I want a _guarantee_ that I can deal with Anthony Hope as my client. I'm not going to let the boy be ripped apart by yeh wolves. Do yeh understand all that, Constable Charlston?"

The Constable said nothing, but stared at Sanders, who was more than happy to continue uninterrupted, and he went on, "Yeh're probably thinking the moment yeh have Anthony Hope, yeh don't need to keep yehr word on our _little deal_. But yeh see, I've thought about everything. If yeh do this for me, I can do more for yeh. If yeh do as I promise, yeh'll be commended even more – yeh'll be the toast of this wretched place, when I bring yeh Johanna Barker - who I'm going to represent as well in court."

The Constable still said nothing to this, still mulling this all over in his head, and he shook his head in disbelief. So Johanna Barker had not been murdered after all. He was about to reply when Sanders said in an almost warning manner, "O' course yeh can have me arrested right now for all o' this, and think yeh can still walk away with the prize. But I'll deny all of this. Yeh know by now I'm _good_ at stories and pulling myself out of trouble. Yeh on the other hand I'm not so sure about with yehr own mess. Yeh'll be in even _more_ trouble for accusing a top lawyer of such scandal. To have important classified information leaked and then to have the full weight of myself pulling yeh police force apart after yeh wrongfully accuse me - _such a shame. _Yeh know what they say happens in situations like these? When people panic, they cut off people without thinking. Yeh could easily be dismissed...And don't yeh have a new wife to take care of too, with a baby on the way?"

"Oh, you really _have_ thought about everything, Dane Sanders," the Constable said slowly. Oddly enough, he was not insulted by this thinly veiled threat, for he knew the man bore no malice but was purely stating fact and assuring that he had himself covered. The man was arrogant, thought too highly of himself, was ambitious - but he was not wicked.

"Yes, that I have," was the lawyer's response, "What do yeh have to say to my proposition then?"

Constable Charlston held out his hand, "I say we have a deal, Sanders," and Sanders shook his hand. They both smiled.

"I suppose yeh'll be wanting the sailor then," Sanders said, "Follow me and I'll take yeh to him."

Before they started to walk however, the Constable took his arm, "Sanders – firstly – what is your motive for all of this? The only part of your deal you have made clear you want is to assist Anthony Hope –"

_"And Johanna Barker,"_ Sanders interjected sharply.

"Oh, yes, of course, but –"

Sanders turned to him, his one revealed eye seething like blue fire, as he answered as succinctly as he could, "What is my motive yeh ask? My motive is to tear down the corruption in this damned city's legal system, ripping it apart, brick by brick. Yeh have _no_ _idea_ who Sweeney Todd used to be and just why he _became _Sweeney Todd and _who _is to blame for that transformation – and it ain't just because of _one_ bleedin' person either, it's the _whole_ goddamned filthy system. I'm tired of the soiled power that pollutes this nation. The _great_ Judge Turpin is dead but his stinkin' legacy remains – all o' them gods of the law can do as they please, sucking the life out of the common people and taking what they want. I've had enough, I've bleedin' had _enough_. I'm going to bring the court of London to its knees, and see that there will never be another Sweeney Todd," he then laughed at his somewhat dramatic answer, "Could've been a bleedin' actor…Or politician…Disturbingly funny how those two occupations - and lawyers too o' course - have more in common with each other, than one would like to think."


	21. Chapter 21

Thanks muchly Vickisticks! What a great compliment!

Hehe, thanks BeBopALula. Ha, I never even thought about Chicago!

Thank thee Ravencaller too. You know, I was thinking about how to delve into Sweeney more. In a way, I really wish he wasn't dead…I'm not sure whether to write a separate story about him and keep it a mystery in this one, or somehow delve into it in this one. I think I'll somehow put it in this one. I'm sure there's some way I could do it easily. And I do have a past for him too…

There's an incredibly clichéd part in here, I know, but I don't caaaaaaaaare.

(By the way, Piers is pronounced like Pierce)

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty-One._**

The young woman's floor was swathed in endless newspaper cuttings which spoke of horrendous things that had to be from a nightmare. None of this could have been true. Her face had been stained with so many tears, she felt disgusting. She looked down one more time and barely read half of the caption from one particular clipping before her eyes were swimming with tears once more. This was ridiculous, how on earth could there be so many tears within her? It was as if a layer of ice frozen during a winter had been sliced open abruptly, and a torrent of tears was gushing through her. The worst part of all of this chaos was the not knowing. None of this made any sense.

Bridget Hope was well aware that her brother was in a horrendous mess. She paced the tattered carpets of the inexpensive apartment she had rented with her lover, her gloved hands pressed against her stomach which roiled and stirred uneasily. Her tailored gown of deep green with a half coat over her bodice trimmed with ebony lace was about the only neat feature about her. Her small hat perched atop her head of the same green, with a half veil of matching black lace could not hide the reckless tresses of a woman who had more to think about than her appearance.

She had already been to the police headquarters countless times during the few days since all this had started, kicking up such a fuss on the whereabouts of her brother that she had been banned from setting foot in the place again but promised that the moment any news of him came forth, she would be informed – although, perhaps that promise had occurred due to the money she had passed to one of the officers. She had not ventured there that day because of the ban, but had still taken pains in dressing well, just in case the time arrived where she would be called to go down there.

So much had changed since she last embraced her twin in Cornwall four years previous and he had left her. She looked over at Piers, still sleeping in the bed they shared in the only adjoining room, his muscular torso peeking out from underneath the sheets, his dark hair spilling over his pillow. His arm still reached across the bed as if he were not aware she had wriggled from underneath it early that morning. Sighing from fractured nerves wrought with indescribable worry she bent down and began clearing away his art tools he had left scattered around the floor when she herself had gone to bed and he had continued with his work. He hated when she cleared away his things. She hated his mess. How on earth they connected she would never know.

They had met at the _Café Noir le_ in Montmartre, when she had just been taking baby steps in her travel and ambition. After her brother had left to fulfil his dreams of sailing the seven seas, ambition had stormed within her too – she had always dreamed of making her living by singing on the vast continent. The stage had always called her, just as real as the seas had captured Anthony. Even though it had long been denied, Bridget had often wandered if there was any gypsy that ran through their lineage from her mother's side. Her great-grandfather had married a foreign girl and a few other relatives had had the urge to travel, her uncle not being the least of that example. He had always been restless, never having time for a family as he wandered the world on his ship. Anthony had inherited that roaming gene, and it seemed she too had craved for that nomadic existence, where the exotic seemed to call her to come discover them.

Her mother had encouraged this dream of music. Before she herself had married and had contented herself with the more domestic occupation of dress making, she had tried to pave an ambition from playing the piano. But her idea of her daughter's music career was most probably contrary to how Bridget went about accomplishing it. Her mother had written to an old connection and a friend in London to take her daughter and introduce her into the music circles. Bridget had left Cornwall full of excitement six months after Anthony had done so. But London had not captured her heart. The people Bridget met had been far too stuffy and restricted, their creativity smothered of all colour – and she had run away, travelling through untamed Europe and performing in troupes and taverns, sleeping in garrets shared with strangers, and only living off course bread, music and new independence that she had never been afforded to know before, because of her gender.

But she had stumbled across Piers accidently. She had not known a scrap of French and he had not known a bit of English. She was young and an amateur and the letter of apology and explanation to her mother of her reckless and wayward behaviour had just been sent that morning, and she really had not known where she would even sleep that night, this being her first night away from England. Oh yes, things _had _changed since she had last seen her brother – she could only imagine his horror if he ever discovered that her first night of her new life in Paris had been in sharing the bed of a stranger. She had _wanted_ Piers unreservedly the moment he had ordered her the hot chocolate she had been having difficulty asking for, and he must have cared deeply for her too, as often she would wake early in those first mornings of their liaison, to him sketching her still form, gazing at her intently. And he had followed her without question as she travelled throughout Europe, chasing her dreams. But then again, he was a Bohemian artist, wandering was a part of him. After two years she had found success in a night spot in Venice, where she could afford her own apartment and sing, for the first time thankful for the endless lessons in Italian she had undertaken as a child, while Piers could paint and sculpture at leisure, not having to worry about bills and paying for food.

Oh how she had _missed _her twin desperately. They had been like two peas in a pod all of their life. When one had hurt, so had the other. He travelled so much now she had nowhere to write him a letter, but when she became settled her mother forwarded the letters he sent home – and the trinkets he sent to her. She had unwrapped an ivory elephant once – a figurine he had purchased from India. She could smell its foreign scent of spices and she had held it to her lips for the longest time, shaking with tears, and leant against Piers who nuzzled her affectionately. It had been one of a pair – Anthony kept the other, and its trunk was raised in a way that it would entwine with its companion when reunited. She had so much to _tell _him – she had changed so much…

She had had to leave Venice when she received word that her father was very ill. She had never particularly known her father – he seemed to spend most of his time in London throughout her childhood - but that never factored into her resolve to return home. He was a good man – he had provided her and her siblings with everything they needed. And so she had returned to Cornwall dutifully, if a little reluctantly – would her mother guess from just looking at her that she had not just found a sweetheart, but they had been living together as well? Piers had played the dutiful part – sleeping in an inn – but it was just as Bridget had feared. Her mother knew the moment Piers had put his arm around her at the dinner table the first night home, that the two shared a relationship that was far too intimate for a chaste courting couple. And she had barely spoken to her that month, rarely leaving the bedside of her husband who writhed from fever.

Bridget had been wakened one morning to the sounds of little Penny bawling from the kitchen. She sprung from her bed in an instant, throwing a robe over her nightdress and ran to the kitchen, expecting the news that her father had passed away during the night. But it was not that at all – in fact, as horrible as she knew it would sound to anybody else, it was worse news. She grabbed the newspaper viciously, her eyes blurring with tears as she read the article again – "It can't be _our _Anthony!"

"It's Anthony – he's a sailor – it's Anthony –" Penny wailed, "Mama! _Mama –"_

"Hush!" Bridget clamped her hand over the whimpering child's mouth, "You won't speak a _word _of this to father, do you hear me? He's ill enough as it is!"

Penny pulled away from her, crying still uncontrollably.

The family was a wreak. Yes, they had managed to keep it secret from their ailing father but everybody else was in too much shock, too much horror. Their brother was wanted for _conspiracy for murder. _He had been in league with a murderer, had brought him into London! None of this made any sense, but Bridget had been packing even before her mother had found out, to go find him. Her mother had been beside herself when she had found out – it wasn't a well kept secret that her only son had been her favourite child. She clung to Bridget – the first time she had embraced her in years – begging her to find him, and had given her an envelope with a large wad of money (the family savings, Bridget supposed) to find a decent lawyer. They had all agreed there must be some horrible mistake. Her poor mother – unable to leave her husband and find her child who was in dire need.

Piers stirred from his sleep now – he had been painting since three in the morning and had slept in very late. He sighed when he saw her waiting fretfully outside the bedroom.

"Chéri, ils ont dit qu'ils t'apporteraient des nouvelles," he called to her tenderly, sitting himself up. She knew very well what he was saying even though she shrugged vacantly – _"Darling, they said they would bring you news," – _the years together had given them plenty of time to become acquainted with each other's native tongue, but she chose to ignore him. He moved from the bed, pulling on a pair of breeches and a loose cotton shirt, and came over to her.

He examined her quietly, and she felt a blush bloom over her cheeks. Yes, she knew it was silly to dress up all day, every day, as if she would be ready the moment she received news. She chewed her lip anxiously and turned to the mirror, applying a touch of powder to her cheeks. A tear dripped from her eyelash and made a trail down her face as she gazed at the mirror.

Piers was making himself look more presentable and she turned to him, "What are you doing?"

He smiled at her softly and answered in English, "Zey banned you from entering ze police headquarters, but zey said nothing about me."

A few more tears scattered down her face and she ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He laughed quietly and when he was ready they made their way downstairs and out onto the street. His hand was entwined through hers as they meandered down the pavement. She wished beyond anything that she could run, but Piers was a laidback man, humming quietly as he lit up a cigarette.

A gasp caught in her throat when they arrived at the police headquarters – there were multitudes of people swarmed all around the building, spilling out onto the street, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on behind the windows. Dozens of journalists were trying to push through, swearing at others who trod on their feet and were in their way.

Bridget turned to Piers confused at this scene, until she overheard the name of Anthony Hope and she realised why there was all this excitement. The thought of her brother finally being found incited Bridget to cry out, and she clawed her way through the crowd, forgetting that she had left Piers far behind as she pulled her way through, yelling out desperately for her brother. She distinctly heard a man swear at her, and she tripped but was pulled up by a kind man muttering apologies over the wild behaviour that wasn't befitting for the presence of a woman, but she ignored this sympathetic aid as she moved closer and closer to the front.

There was that plump Constable she had spoken to who had banned her, Charlston, was that his name? He looked as proud as punch as he answered questions on the top of his voice, trying to make himself heard over the rabble that surrounded him, _"Yes, it was I who arrested young Anthony Hope…I have been on his trail for quite some time – what was that? You're from the Mirror? Yes, it's Charlston – there is no 'e'. No, he did not put up a fight at all – slight lad – well yes, it is true, he volunteered himself to be brought into custody – but still…It still takes a certain cunning to – what was that? No, I said no 'e' whatsoever! As I was saying, it still takes a certain cunning – a type of skill to follow a suspect's scent. Are we any closer to finding Miss Barker, you ask? Perhaps, perhaps, but I'm not at liberty to speak further on it…My final comment will be that the progress of justice has been maintained. London will not have to fear, we will find the answers and the appropriate people will…"_

The man continued on with this drivel as Bridget became knocked about from the men around her, as she tried to get the Constable's attention so she could be brought inside. But this pursuit seemed to be a useless one, as the man finally turned without seeing her and walked back inside, closing the door where nobody was admitted.

Bridget started to panic as she rapped upon the door as hard as she could with her knuckles, and she knew herself she was becoming irrational as she started to scream his name, _"Anthony! Anthony!"_

The press did not leave the moment the doors were barred, in fact, they seemed as intent on Bridget Hope to remain there, still shouting questions, and after awhile she had to realise this was getting her nowhere. Tears wracked through her body as she stumbled back, trying to find Piers, "They promised – they promised they would send for me the moment they found my brother!" she wailed to him, and he took her in her arms consolingly.

"Brother?"

Somebody echoed from behind her, and she pulled away, looking at the tall man gazing at her with one revealed eye.

"Yes – yes, my brother – I'm Bridget Hope – are you some sort of journalist? Could you get me inside – you don't understand, he needs me!"

"Bleedin' hell, God save us all," was all the strange man with an eye-patch could utter from her desperate pleas, which would have incited compassion from any other person, "There's a female version of him."


	22. Chapter 22

Haha, xxlindazzz, you made me laugh. Thanks!

Hehe Vicki, _indeed. _Loveth you.

Aww, booksroc, are you okay?? Thanks.

Ravencaller, wow, thank thee very much! I didn't think you'd be particularly impressed with that chapter either. Yayness. :)

Thank you very much.

Oh, and if anybody cares (haha), I figured out a way to still keep the title of _Paper Flowers._

Thanks everyone!

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty-Two._**

Johanna Barker was biting her fingernails – a habit she had not done since her childhood years. She was sitting by the window – the thought just grabbed her, she had spent her _whole life_ looking out of windows – and watching the weather. Everywhere was grey – not quite the weather for a storm, but weather which suggested they were on the brink of one. Ha. How sentimentally trite. She must be _very_ unnerved to be finding parallels with her situation to the _weather. _Sanders had nearly driven the hansom driver mad – he had kept changing his mind on the course of direction, after Anthony and he had returned after whatever they were looking at. For the first time he had become far more fretful, tapping his cane on the floor, chewing his lower lip, muttering to himself.

"Are you alright, Dane?" she had finally asked him quietly.

The man looked at her and laughed hollowly and then shook his head, but it was as if he were answering thoughts in his mind rather than her, till he finally said gruffly, "This will not do…This will not do…I can't take yeh both."

Anthony clutched Johanna's hand protectively, and she did not know what he had meant as he snapped, "This isn't another game Sanders? For God's sake, I'm not leaving her!"

She looked at him questioningly, but he sighed and with his other hand he rubbed his forehead as if he felt a headache coming along. She placed her other hand on their entwined hands gently, and he smiled at her softly, "I promise I won't."

"Of _course _it's a game!" Sanders retorted savagely, "This whole damn bleedin' system is a _game. _I have to figure out a way to stay ahead, that's all…We _must _stay ahead or it will be the gallows…"

_"Sanders!"_ Anthony hissed, twitching his head in Johanna's direction.

Sanders curled his lip at him in a sneer, "She's not a bleedin' _doll _you idiot. I'm sure she's quite aware of the enormity of all of this. People get sent to bleedin' Australia for stealing a_ loaf of bread,_ she lived with a _Judge_, I'm sure she knows what happens to the worse criminals!"

"But he's not a criminal," Johanna interjected, and Sanders nodded reluctantly, though she was certain it was only an attempt to soften any worry she may be feeling – which was exactly what he had been sneering at Anthony for doing.

"I'm an idiot," Sanders covered his mouth with his hand thoughtfully, "I'm a goddamned imbecile…To think I was going to take yeh _both…_No, no, I need _leverage," _he then pointed to Johanna, "Yeh – I'm taking yeh back to Laura's tavern," and then he pointed at Anthony, "And I'm sorry lad, but yeh have to be taken in first. I _swear _to yeh I will not abandon yeh!"

There was silence in the hansom as he looked at both of them, "Well?"

Anthony, fidgety and nervous because of this sudden restless new manner from Sanders looked at him anxiously, "Well, what?"

"Well aren't yeh going to start all yehr protestations about yehr undying love and that yeh should never be separated and all that drippinness that yeh find in those Penny Dreadfuls yeh can buy on the street corners? Yeh seem to be so good at that," Sanders said.

Anthony looked to Johanna, then looked back at Sanders, "No…I know you have your reasons. You're good at what you do."

There was silence in the hansom for the longest moment as Sanders just looked at him blankly, and a little disappointed too, if one wanted to be honest. He then sniffed and replied surprised, "Huh…" then grunted and added, _"Fool."_

They then travelled back to the tavern, and it was an awkward goodbye between Johanna and Anthony. How could she throw her arms around him? How could she kiss him farewell? How could she tell him everything would be alright? Contrary to the daydream that Anthony was under, they barely knew each other, and here he was – a young man who had already paved his own ambition and way in life at such a young age, but was willing to risk it all for a young woman. He was either really in love with her – or – or – "Or a downright fool…" she had not realised she had murmured that out loud till he had looked at her curiously.

She turned to Sanders suddenly, panic seizing her, "For God's sake Sanders, tell him he's a fool! Tell him he needs to run from London! This isn't worth it – this is truly not worth it!" and she backed away a few steps, "I won't be responsible for your death! If you truly care for me as you say you do Anthony Hope, you will run as fast as you can. You wouldn't want me to live with this culpability, this guilt, of being responsible for your fate! Damn you, you stupid child! _Why_ did you look up at the window when I sang?"

Anthony was about to answer, when Sanders took her carefully and turned her to face him, "Jo, the dice has already been rolled. It isn't just about yeh anymore – he can't run. They'll find him."

She looked up at him then, trying to measure him as a man and she asked him quietly, "Truly, Mr. Sanders, are you a man of your word? Can I trust you with his life?"

Sanders was quite taken aback at such a question, each word was coloured with the weight of many years. She was a few years younger than the boy, she had been hidden away for so long, but lord she knew so much _more_. Oh how he _wanted_ her as his own…He answered her as sincerely as he could as he spoke, "This isn't just about what I want either anymore – the world is changing…I can't explain it girl, but Sweeney Todd's murders – that was the catastrophe that London needed. This is beyond any of us. Yes, yeh can trust me to do my job. I want to be so much more than a lawyer – so much more than a man that makes pretty speeches that can change people's minds. I want to direct the course of where London is going. I'll protect yehr Anthony, because he is the means for that change," he then bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, "Don't worry for his delicate neck, Jo. I have need of him, and he wouldn't be much use writhing below the gallows."

That had been awhile ago, and she sat in wait for him to return to tell her how it all went. She stood at once when there was a knock on the door, and Sanders stepped in – with two strangers.

From the curve of her pretty mouth to the shade of her dark hair Johanna blinked in surprise as she looked at a woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to Anthony. The man behind her had long dark hair and a gold hoop in his ear. He smiled at her gently.

"Jo, this is Bridget Hope – a sister of Anthony's," Sanders said, as the two young women stared at each other, Johanna with an air of wariness – she could not detect Miss Hope's veiled thoughts.

The woman stepped closer, and nodded her head as if resigned, "She looks exactly as I had pictured her," she sighed and said to the man behind her in halted and somewat uncertain French after smiling slightly in greeting at Johanna, "Ah, la qualité… comment ayez-moi a changé tellement pourtant lui semble avoir pas dans le plus léger, jugeant par la fille? Dès moi peux me rappeler, il étais toujours quelque chose qui a eu besoin sauver, que gagné sa dévotion complète - mère utilisée pour le dire à l'histoire d'une coccinelle a sauvé de l'écrasement sur la rue par une roue de chariot quand nous n'étions pas plus que les enfants en bas âge toddling, où il a été presque frappé plus d'en le hansom lui-même. Quand nous étions petits il étions un chaton parasite qu'il a trouvé coincé dans un arbre qui l'a rayé malgré son aide, quand nous étions peu des plus vieux il étions un oiseau avec une aile cassée il a apportée à la maison de ses wanderings et tendu lui comme si c'étaient un animal familier prisé, malgré sa nature sauvage. Quelque chose jolie et ayante besoin de défense et de protection a toujours attrapé mon brother' attention des. Et maintenant ce semble he's a passé aux _humains_ - premièrement c'était le meurtrier sauvage qu'il a sauvé des mers - selon son avocat, et maintenant he's a trouvé sa demoiselle de conte de fées dans la détresse, son sensible et joli seigneur de beauté de sommeil… oh, je le parierais appelle même son Briar Rose aussi!"

_Oh, goodness...How on earth have I changed so much yet he seems to have not in the slightest, judging by the girl? As far back as I can remember, it was always something that needed rescuing, that won his complete devotion - Mother used to tell the story of a ladybug he rescued from being crushed on the street by a carriage wheel when we were no more than toddling infants, where he was nearly knocked over by the hansom himself. When we were small it was a stray kitten he found stuck in a tree which scratched him in spite of his help, when we were a little older it was a bird with a broken wing he brought home from his wanderings and tended to it as if it were a treasured pet, in spite of its wild nature. Something pretty and needing defending and protection always caught my brother's attention. And now finally it seems he's moved on to_ humans _- firstly it was the savage murderer he rescued from the seas - according to his lawyer, and now he's found his fairytale damsel in distress, his delicate and pretty Sleeping Beauty...Oh lord, I would wager he even calls her Briar Rose too!_

Johanna smiled politely at this, and with a wry twist to her words she answered in English after she deciphered it in her mind, "Actually, he called me Rapunzel, but only once. It seems he prefers my own name, Johanna."

There was an awkward silence in the room after Bridget realised her words had not been as concealed as she had hoped, and Johanna turned back to the window, sitting down, and said softly, "Mr. Turpin ensured I was an accomplished woman…I always had a fondness for French – such a romantic language."


	23. Chapter 23

Thank you, thank you, thank you, you three! *Hugs you all*

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty-Three._**

To Bridget's shame Piers laughed heartily over the awkward situation, the embers of his amusement not even fading when she looked at him sharply as her face warmed in embarrassment. She had _not _meant for Miss Barker to hear such degradation, for really, it was not meant to be demeaning _her_, but rather her foolish and dreamily romantic brother. _Damn_. This was not the type of footing she wanted with the girl. The lawyer, Mr. Sanders, while not as loud as Piers, snickered to himself and grinned at Miss Barker too as if he were proud of her astute and quick reply.

The girl however seemed not to notice the response to what she had said to Bridget, as she continued to look absentmindedly through the window.

"Forgive me, Miss Barker," Bridget tried to make amends, "The last thing I want to do is to offend the woman who has won over my brother…I meant no insult, truly, only – I am not surprised to find you looking the way you do. Anthony – he has always had a weakness for things that appeal to the eye. You are very beautiful."

There was no reply to this and Bridget fidgeted uncomfortably. She did not repeat the other sentiment she had spoken before when she had spoken in French, that Anthony was also attracted to things that resisted him – the cat that had scratched him, a bird that was wild, the waves that could quite easily smother him sending him to a deep grave. Bridget shook herself – she was being silly. Just because this girl was aloof, did not mean anything. She hardly knew the girl. Her brother was one of the kindest and sweetest men she knew – any girl would be completely besotted with him.

"Dane, how is he?" Miss Barker finally asked, the touch of concern in her words easing some of Bridget's worry, "They didn't hurt him, did they? You made sure they would treat him right, didn't you?"

"O' course Jo," Mr. Sanders assured her, "He volunteered himself into custody – and they'll be damned if I find they laid a finger on him. I just need to wait till it's clear my bar has been lifted and I'll swoop down on the lot o' them."

Bridget looked at the girl to the lawyer, noting the intimate touch to those words and knew that that would be something she would need to ponder about later. For now she needed to stop Piers, who was over excited that somebody else knew his own language nearly as fluently as he did and he had moved over to Miss Barker, his words pouring out at such a rate that she herself could not keep up.

She was worried still of course, incredibly worried over her brother. But the lawyer seemed to know what he was doing – he had told Bridget all the details he knew and he did it in such a way she would have believed him gladly had he told her the moon had fallen into the ocean. He spun words together like a proper craftsman.

For now she cleared her throat, causing Piers to stop his rambling and look over to her fondly, "Piers, why don't you take Mr. Sanders downstairs and buy him a drink, yes? I am sure Miss Barker would like a little quiet, and I would like to get to know my brother's sweetheart."

Piers nodded and as he moved past her to the door he took her hand, squeezing it gently, and nodding to Sanders they both departed leaving the two young women alone.

"Two months," Bridget laughed self-consciously, "Mr. Sanders has told me that my brother was in London for _two months _without thinking to send a note to home. An unforgiveable thing from any other person! But it's _Anthony;_ he does forget time so easily, I suppose that's how he manages to survive those long bouts on a ship. Also, he has a habit of springing up on us to surprise us, it's irritating and endearing at the same time. And with all of this horrible mess – not to mention him courting you, Miss. Two months must have felt like a week or so. You will beg pardon of me, but I _am_ his sister and I love him dearly – please indulge me with the story of how you met."

She sat beside Miss Barker at the window and smiled as kindly as she could, vowing to herself that she would have the girl feel at ease with her. Miss Barker swallowed, and answered as best she could, "Anthony was lost; he told me later that he had been trying to find Hyde Park. And he stumbled across the street where I lived. I have a habit of singing to myself to while away the hours at my window. And he heard me. He told me he loved me not only at first sight, but at first note."

Bridget Hope smiled at this, as music was a part of her own very self, "Ah, you sing? Well, that makes sense. Music runs through our family…Oh, that is very romantic, and typical of him too. Did he sweep you off your feet? Have you been courting madly since? I tell you what though, I never thought anything would chain him to the land. My mother will be well pleased he's found his little siren to –"

"Siren?" Miss Barker interjected, a little worriedly.

"Yes – a beautiful mythical maiden on the seas, who –" Bridget began to explain.

But Miss Barker nodded, "No, I know what sirens are. They cause men to die when they become so infatuated by their voices, that either their ships smash upon the rocks or they drown when trying to reach them…"

Bridget chewed her lip pensively, "I didn't mean it like that – more along the lines of a beautiful singer."

Miss Barker lowered her head, her breathing becoming a little heavier and she mumbled, "I knew what you meant, Miss Hope. But under the circumstances with everything that has transpired, it is difficult to deny that I am more similar to a siren than the romanticised version."

Bridget looked at the girl with pity, and unceremoniously she reached forward and took Miss Barker's arm, "Stop this – Anthony doesn't need this right now, does he? He needs us all to be strong for him. It's useless heaping blame on yourself – I've lived with my brother all of my life. He's an idiot. I love him dearly but he's a stubborn blinded fool when he's seen something he wants. I don't know the circumstances exactly of what happened with you, but Anthony would have walked over coals to help you, even if you solicited his help or not. He loves you, and you love him, yes? Well then, that is all I care about. Now tell me, how did you begin courting?"

She had meant for this to soothe the girl, but instead it seemed to distress Miss Barker more as she laughed shrilly, "Please don't think ill of me – no, no, I _want_ you to think ill of me. I want you to hate me. If truth be told, before he rescued me and we stayed in this inn, we had only spoken barely even a handful of times. And that's not even the worst part, I used him, not from malicious means but from desperation. I used to sing to any number of men who would wander past my window, hoping and praying that they would take notice of me and somehow rescue me, while being infatuated. I just never knew how quick it would be for that particular young sailor to do as I wanted. Yes, I'm fond of him now I know him, yes he's a good and noble and sweet man – but don't you see? I'm an abhorrent, wicked little girl who used him without thought…You would have done it too if you had been trapped away all of your life. He is too good for me, I don't deserve such devotion! It repulses me because I am not worthy of it!"

Miss Barker squeezed her eyes shut as if she expected a surge of over protectiveness from Miss Hope for her brother in the form of a slap or a heated berating. But Miss Hope just sat there, staring at her pensively, as if she did not know what to make of all of that. She let out a deep sigh and leaned back, swearing to herself.

"You hate me," Miss Barker finally muttered, opening her eyes.

Miss Hope said nothing for a moment, then managed a half hearted, "_No_…Hate is a vile word. I don't hate you…"

Then she slapped her hands on her lap and stood up, "Well, after this revelation, it's silly to continue with such formal ceremony, isn't it? Call me Bridget, please – all this Miss Hope business unnerves me. And I will call you Johanna, if that's all the same to you."

Johanna looked at her uncertainly but nodded numbly, and Bridget smiled somewhat satisfied. Then she began pacing thoughtfully, "Johanna, Johanna, Johanna…What do you intend to do then, after all of this is resolved?"

* * *

Sanders looked up as Miss Hope ventured down, her thoughts veiled from him as she had a neutral look upon her face. She nodded at him as she moved over, gesturing for him to remain seated as he began to stand from politeness.

"Where is Piers?" she asked, looking around the tavern.

"I don't know to be honest, he went wandering down the street," he answered.

"Ah," she then sat opposite him and looked at him as if she meant business, "Now I know you need to wait upon some sort of barring from court to be lifted before you represent Anthony, but that shouldn't mean you can't go see a potential client in need. I want you to take me to see my brother now, is that understood?"

He smirked at her and answered, "Oui, si vous aimez," _Yes, if you like, _and watched her reaction.

"Brilliant," she muttered to herself, causing him to laugh, "Everybody knows French!"

"Indeed," he answered, as they both stood to depart.

"We'll probably find Piers along the way," Bridget said absently as they began their walk.

"Tell me Miss Hope," Sanders asked her as they left the tavern, "What do yeh think o' yehr brother's choice in sweethearts?"

"I think," she answered without pause, as if she had been mulling over that thought herself just at that moment, "That the poor girl has endured so much throughout her lonely existence and deserves to be loved with such devotion as my silly brother obviously does. I pity her immensely - Anthony has no idea the work he is going to have to endure to gain her trust. I truly believe she doesn't think anybody could love her."

Sanders just snorted in reply, and the two continued their journey in silence.


	24. Chapter 24

Thank you booksroc and ravencaller, so much. Hope you feel better soon, ravencaller. :(

Hahaha, thank you Noelle, but I already went fangirlish over that awesome review on Yahoo messenger.

Hehehehe, thanks Vicki.

Another chapter tonight. Sorry if this one's unusually set-out, that's honestly just how it came to be, and I think it fits (reminds me of V For Vendetta, but that's just my geeky side...). But more tonight!

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty-Four._**

_"Your name is Anthony Jeremiah Hope?"_

"Yes."

_"You are the Anthony Hope that commandeers the merchant ship, the Bountiful?"_

"Yes…It is my Uncle's ship. Captain Jeremiah Campbell…Though…Though, he is known to everybody as Jem."

_"And you admit to transporting the serial murderer Sweeney Todd into London, on your ship?"_

"Yes."

_"On your orders?"_

"Yes."

_"Do you admit to having any knowledge of –"_

"No!"

_"Let me finish the question, Mr. Hope."_

"I beg your pardon, Detective. Please, continue."

_"Do you admit to having any knowledge of Sweeney Todd being a murderer?"_

"No."

_"Yet you admit to having a friendship with the man?"_

_"_A…A friendship of some sorts, yes."

_"How did you become acquainted with him?"_

_"_It was after a storm. I spotted him floating on a piece of wood and I ordered my men to rescue him. He was very ill – I docked into Jakarta to find a physician, but we were not successful in procuring one. I thought it best to tend to him myself, and allow him to have passage to London, since he sounded like an Englishman. If he wished to, once his health improved, he could have taken leave of the ship at any number of harbours we passed through. As it was, he wished to remain till we reached London. He worked on _the Bountiful _to pay for his passage."

_"You thought it best, did you?"_

Then there was a pause. The boy lowered his face. A single tear formed, which was not unnoticed by the interviewer.

_"You thought it _best, _did you?"_

"I did not know…I was not aware…I mean – I had no idea…"

_"Do you have _any idea _of the man's identity? Where he came from? How he came to be floating on that piece of wood at that moment you found him?"_

"I – I need to speak with my lawyer."

_"Did you ask him as you were tending to him, who he was?"_

"Yes – well, I tried. It seemed to distress him. I did not press further."

_"And you did not find his reluctance _at all _suspicious?"_

"All men have secrets, Sir. He was weak – I –"

The newly formed tear rolled down his face. Many more sprang forth and slid down his cheeks. The boy whimpered quietly.

The interviewer slid an object across the table. It was a plain wedding band, of red gold.

_"That was found downstairs at the pie shop. It belonged to one of the victims. One of the victims who left behind a wife, maybe…See inside it, the engraving of the initials? L.B. The initials of a person not reported, perhaps a traveller? Perhaps a foreigner, coming in for a shave or a quick trim to the hair. Perhaps he came off a ship, just like yours. Whoever he was, he's possibly left behind a widow. Perhaps a child too. Or perhaps not even a wife yet at all – you see, a lot of the possessions were stolen from the victims we've discovered – silver flasks and cufflinks and all sorts of trinkets found in Lovett's bedroom – but why was this ring down there, slid into a secret corner, only to be discovered by us in our search? Perhaps it was just in the young man's pocket and not on his finger after all, where surely Lovett or Todd's greedy hands would have snatched it from after discovering it. Perhaps when his corpse was dropped below, it fell out of the pocket and rolled away. Perhaps it was for a sweetheart, a ring to be taken back and the initials were hers, the size of the ring isn't large after all. We'll never know, Mr. Hope, all we can assume is that somewhere out there a woman waits for a man who will never return to her."_

There was no reply. The boy just shook with the effort of not sobbing completely. He covered his face with his hands, the sleeves of his shirt pulled down low and balled into his trembling fists, where he scrubbed at his face. How odd - the interviewer thought - it was almost a child-like motion, too innocent for that of a man wanted for a murder conspiracy.

_"Blood, boy. Blood is on your hands."_

He did not reply.

_"You were asked repeatedly when you were brought in. I will ask you again – where is Miss Johanna Barker?"_

The boy managed to say through his tears, "I need – I need – to speak with my lawyer."

_"You don't need a _lawyer_, Mr. Hope, you bloody well need a _priest_ to absolve your sins before I make sure you're sent to the gallows. The interview is terminated at 3:32pm. Take him away, Bert, we'll continue this later." _


	25. Chapter 25

Thank you Rainbow Cloud, I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

Haha Vicki, _you _feel sorry for _Anthony? _Haha, thanks m'dear.

BeBopALula, thank thee! Haha, yes, I agree.

Love the emotion booksroc, thank you!

Noelle, Noelle, Noelle, I should have known you'd go all V in your review. Man I need to watch that film again…

Thanks guys! I appreciate your words!

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty-Five._**

Anthony was curled up in the corner of the small cell they had locked him in, sitting on the lumpy and torn mattress that was the bed he would endure a fitful night in. The only other piece of furniture in the room was an old and splintered chair. He had never realised before the intense fear he had of being trapped in such a small room where it was as if the walls could close in on him. His palms were beginning to sweat, but he was icy cold. The tears had stopped falling long ago, but his gut was still gripped in agony with the part he had had to play in London's worst mass murderer. He had begged to send word home to tell them what was happening, but the police had laughed at him telling him they would have heard by now. His hands covered his mouth, oh lord, Penny had always liked to read the newspaper, he hoped and prayed that she had ceased that habit. The nausea roiled in his stomach and no matter how much he tried to push it back, he had to stumble off the bed and lunge himself at the chamber pot, where the contents of breakfast left his stomach. He knelt beside it cowering, as that ring he had seen previously, carved itself into his mind. There was a woman waiting for a man she loved who would never return, who had endured a terrible death. His throat would have been slashed, and all that blood would have gushed endlessly – he would have drowned to death in his own fluids. The initials _L.B. _played over his eyes repeatedly - _who _was that stranger? What was their story?

_He_ had brought a plague to London; _he_ had not listened to any of his men, so full of himself and so _naïve. _And all he had _cared_ about was a pretty young girl, while men were being slaughtered!

He heard the rattling of keys and did not look up as the door opened, expecting to be hauled up and dragged into another long interview. Instead however, he heard a soft gasp and before he could register it was his twin beside the officer on duty, she had thrown herself beside him, and he was pulled into a crushing embrace where he could not breathe but would not dream of moving either. She cradled his head to her chest, planting a kiss on his forehead and held him tighter, neither of them speaking as they rocked together gently.

Finally he spoke, his words shuddering as he mumbled, "Where is –"

"They're all back home. Papa is ill, Anthony, Mother sent me," she answered before he finished what he was saying.

"How did you…" he stopped answering, pulling back and staring at her.

Tears stained her cheeks, it seemed an endless stream, as she replied, "Penny."

"Oh, God, the newspaper."

She nodded, more tears falling, "Gave us all such a fright."

"You don't – I mean, I didn't –"

_"Of course we know you're innocent," _her words were venomous there, and full of iron and strength, and she took hold of his arms forcefully, "Oh you _silly fool. _Why didn't you come straight back home when you docked? Why did you linger in London? You have no idea about the _magnitude _–"

"I _know_ the magnitude of this, for God sake Bridget, men were murdered!"

Anthony looked away as his sister quivered with those words, pulling out a lace handkerchief and pressing it to her mouth.

"Where is –"

"Uncle Jem is away at sea, he should be back soon…Father is very ill, Anthony. Mother wouldn't tell us, but I saw her taking out his chamber pot a few times. Anthony, there was _blood._"

Anthony leaned back against the wall and in a moment she crawled over to him and they huddled together, whispering in broken sentences but clearly understanding each other (though the officer watching wondered how on earth they knew what each other was talking about, the questions were always half asked but answered straightaway) and clinging to each other with such desperation as a pair of newly orphaned children.

* * *

Sanders had noted that the police station was all topsy turvy with action. It was late in the afternoon, usually they would be readying to depart for home, but with the progress that was happening with the Fleet Street murders, that did not look likely. Usually he was noticed straightaway and a poor underling was sent to try and rid him from the police station. He had to chuckle – ah, he and the police had enjoyed a long history together over the years. But for the first time it seemed his presence was not noticed. He had intended to help the girl see her brother, but the moment it seemed nobody cared who entered as long as they did not bring trouble and was not one of the vultures of the press, she had stormed in herself demanding to be taken to him at once. He half pitied the Frenchman lover she had found, she was quite daunting when she was on a mission.

So Sanders, camouflaging himself so he would not be noticed, made himself look busy after pulling down his top-hat to conceal his eye-patch as much as he could. He looked determined and on a task as he pushed through the officers, speaking loudly over the noise, "Yes, Johnson, I'll just get that file for yeh," and snickered to himself as he manoeuvred his way through the place trying to look for what he wanted –

He found a table in a back room with several objects of interest. The evidence. _Good!_

He moved up, his eyes wandering over a box full of silver razors to one that lay on its own covered in dried blood which spoiled the beauty of the blade…He did not touch, but his eyes fell upon a piece of paper and he curiously read the words silently in his mind.

_The Honourable Judge Turpin,_

_I write this urgent note to warn you that the young sailor has abducted your ward Johanna. _

_Hoping to earn your favour I have persuaded the boy to bring her here tonight to my shop._

_Hurry after nightfall and she will be waiting. _

_Yours to serve,_

_Sweeney Todd of Fleet Street._

Sanders was taken aback by such a note – so, the bastard intended to betray Anthony…No, no there must be more to it than _that_…

"Hey!"

He turned without jumping to Charlston, who was looking around wildly, seeing if anybody had noticed Sanders, "For Gods _sake,_ I'm trying to come through with _my_ part of the bargain and here _you_ are trying to sabotage my efforts!" he hissed, "Get out – they'll never lift your ban if they find you – _get out!"_

Sanders moved past him without further word, his mind on more important matters than a spluttering constable. What the hell did all of this _mean?_

"Charlston?" he said, just before he went to leave, "Where is that boy that was first taken in when all o' this first came to light – Tobias Ragg – the one they reckon slit Sweeney Todd's throat?"

"We have him here," Charlston said uneasily, "But so far we have had no luck in getting him to talk. The lad's mind is scrambled, he's completely mad. All he does is rant."

Sanders walked away without further questions but added, "Tell Bridget Hope I'll be at the tavern when she's finished reuniting with her brother. Oh, and I'll be speaking with Tobias in the next few days. And he better bloody be fed and clothed properly, I know what yeh bleeders are like. And then yeh wonder why all they do is rant instead o' co-operating."


	26. Chapter 26

Thank you Ravencaller! I'm so glad you're feeling better. Ha, yeah, the legalities, I swear I wish I could have just written a nice romantic story, but the more I wrote the mor complicated I realised this would actually be. Bloody Sweeney... :)

xxxlindazzz and booksroc, thank you (I've streaked my hair purple before too...Should do it again)!

Haha, very true Vicki.

I have the biggest damned headache..Not that any of you would care about my rambling. :P

Thanks guys, loveth youz all.

Ah, screw it, I'm going to say it. When Sweeney first returns to Fleet Street and he asks Lovett, "Where's Lucy? Where's my wife?" isn't that _the _most heartbreaking question? Not necessarily the question as such, but the emotion and _misery _in those words...I swear I could watch that _one _little bit over and over and over again. *Fangirl moment*

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty-Six._**

Sanders pushed open the door of _the Thorny Crown _and immediately the sound of dozens of men just finishing their day of work washed over him. He could smell them too, the stench of sweat made his nose twitch in a most unfavourable manner. It was odd, a tavern in London was usually full all day, and while this tavern had its share of patrons it wasn't till the late afternoon and the evening did it seem as if it was bursting from the seams. Raucous laughter met his ears, and as he moved his way through the throngs of men he could feel their eyes burning his back, watching the man wearing a well-cut and tailored suit in their territory with suspicion. _Good job, idiot,_ Sanders seethed to himself thinking about Anthony, _bringing Jo to such a place._

"Louise, Louise, our employer doesn't pay you to curl your hair around your finger, get back to serving at once!" he heard Laura's voice over the chaotic din, and he had to grin at that.

The girl she was reprimanding pulled a face when she saw Laura walk back into the kitchen and she pouted prettily at the three men she had been talking to, gracefully dropping from the table she had been sitting on, and flounced off to do as she was told. Sanders did not escape her notice however, and in one flicker of her eyes she had deduced she would talk to him at the next available opportunity.

Sanders found a stool and sat at the bar, leaning forward and ordering out, "I want a piece o' that cake yeh promised me, woman."

"I'll give you a piece of _something else _if you ask like that again!" Laura's voice came from the kitchen, but then her tone softened and he barely heard her as she said pleadingly, "Jacob love, I need that pan – no, please – here, use this other pot to bang away on, there's a lad."

He sat there for a couple of minutes, and to his amusement it was Louisa who pranced out of the kitchen holding a plate with a generous slice of cake for him. She moved over and he couldn't help but notice her delicate waistline under the sheer gown she wore of heather green. He leaned his chin upon his palm as he rested his elbow on the counter and she seemed pleased that his attention was all on her. Oh, what a pretty thing she was, with blonde hair a shade darker than Jo's but with an elegant curl. The stench of desperation was upon her as distinctly as the perfume that lingered on her young flesh.

"Potato spice cake," she said to him smiling, "I made it myself."

"Yeh did now, did yeh?" he said as she placed the plate in front of him.

He frowned at the inviting delicacy in front of him. The orange piece of cake actually _did_ look inviting; in spite of the doubts he had that morning. He picked up the fork and stabbed at it – how could something made from potatoes look so sweetly inviting? He placed a piece into his mouth and had to laugh as his tongue exploded with the taste of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. Bleedin' hell, he owed the wench money. She was right, he would be wanting a second piece. He pulled out his coin purse and fished out the right coins, plonking it beside his plate.

He then surveyed Louisa again and quoted from Shakespeare as dulcetly as he could manage before shoveling another forkful into his mouth, _"Looks like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it,"_ and winked_._

She looked at him half smiling, half pensive. He had spoken to her so nicely but something told her it wasn't a compliment, and she furrowed her brow, "What does it mean, Sir?"

"It means," Sanders was gorging down the dessert now, "That it ain't nice to lie when I know yeh weren't the one to bake this. That lie makes yeh as foul to me as yehr face makes yeh pretty to those drunk louts."

The girl's half smile faded and she mumbled something about having to do some work and hurried away. He watched her disappear into the crowded room, appreciating her figure, but then went back to the cake. A few moments later Laura came out with two jugs of beer and went into the crowd too, and returned empty handed. She spotted the coins of defeat by his plate and she grinned, "Shall I get you another piece then?"

Without waiting for him to answer she disappeared and in two moments she returned and placed it on the counter, then smirked at him, "That wasn't nice, by the way."

Sanders shrugged, "Yeh heard then? The wench probably has the pox for all I know, I don't want her anywhere near me."

"Indeed," she turned and started putting some glasses away in a cupboard, "How is everything, anyway?"

There was a silence, Laura assuming he was still eating as she turned to admonish his greedy self for not answering, till she saw the serious look on his face.

"It's bad, isn't it?" she asked quietly.

Sanders paused a little while longer, then mumbled, "If I knew it would do her any good, I'd bundle Jo into a hansom and I'd take her the hell out of this cesspit, no matter how much she fought me. It ain't good Laura."

"You can't give up hope – for goodness sake, you've been vowing to them it would all be fine," Laura retorted.

Sanders didn't answer, in fact, he looked furious at himself for revealing such doubt and muttered, "Bleedin' witch is what yeh are, concocting such temptations and making a man talk when he'd usually be unwilling. Bleedin' Eris."

He took the second piece of cake and stomped off, up the stairs to the inn and quietly knocked on Jo's door.

There was no answer.

"Jo dear, I'm back," he said quietly.

There was still no answer.

Looking down at the piece of cake, he took a crumb and nibbled it, calling out again, "Jo, open the door."

When there was still no answer, he opened the door and stepped in quietly incase she was dozing but then looked around blankly when he saw she was not anywhere in the room. He poked his head back out the room, and called out, concern creeping in his voice, "Johanna!"

Worry began to take hold of him and without thinking he turned back to the room looking around and spied a piece of paper on the table. He rushed over to the table, dumped the plate down and read the simple sentence – _I h__ave gone to Oakland cemetery, - Johanna. – _And without further loitering he dashed from the room in a panic.

Women would be the death of him, he damn well knew it. 


	27. Chapter 27

Firstly, I would just like to offer one giant, big apology to all my readers. The reason why I haven't posted in so long is because my uni work just got on top of me and I freaked and I just had to vanish from the world of fanfiction for awhile. I honestly didn't realise it would be such a long break. I really do appreciate all your reviews and you reading and enjoying my work, that has never ebbed. I'm sorry. I've finished my uni work now, and I intend to get back into this story. I've probably lost all your interest, but I hope you come back. Anyway, I am sorry. Two months absence is just ridiculous.

Secondly, this is a badly written chapter. I'm sorry. I'm just out of practice, and I need to get back into Sweeney mode again. Hmm, perhaps I should rewatch the film. Really though, this chapter is just a big hello and I'm back to you all and an update to where I'm at.

Anyway, lord, I'm rambling! I'm sorry..

Anyway, in short, I'm sorry I've been gone so long and I hope I haven't totally lost all of you, and I'm sorry this chapter is...Hmm..Just read. Ha. Anthony and Johanna will be soon.

Hehe, thanks Vicki. And you are TOTALLY right. COME SNOWFLAKE, AWAY!!

Ravencaller, it is so very true. And thank you.

Booksroc, thank you!!

* * *

_**Ch****apter Twenty Seven.**_

Sanders tripped down the stairs of the inn down to the tavern hurriedly, muttering livid profanity in his state which would make even a sailor blush. _Bleedin' __women, never bleedin' __listened to any sort of sense!_ Oakland bleedin' cemetery! That was where all the rich people spent their eternity, he supposed she had gone to find the Judge's cemetery plot. He wondered if she knew that due to the court proceedings the Judge hadn't even been buried yet. There would surely be a huge ceremony full of pomp and rituals when he was buried, there always were for those types of people. Buried like saints they were where throngs of people would mourn in their silks of sable and mourning veils. If she were caught…If she were caught wandering the streets of London, as calm as you please, Sanders didn't know _what_ would happen.

In his turmoil he bumped right into that Louise barmaid, who dropped two jugs of beer with a slight scream, the glass shattering all over the floor with the amber liquid sloshing all over their feet. He barely heard her cries of, "Oh _no!_ Now Laura will make me pay this out of my wages!" but he certainly _did_ feel Laura's fingers when she heard the commotion, grasping his arm.

"Is there a reason why you're bumping into an employee of this tavern, Mr. Sanders?" she asked him rather bluntly, after calming the girl.

But all he needed to reply was, "Jo – she's left her room – she's said where she's gone, but I need to go, woman!" and her hand dropped to her side at once. She nodded in understanding and he was pelting out of the tavern, ready to call a carriage.

That was until a cloaked figure walking down the street cried out, calling his name. Sanders straightened and turned to the direction of the voice then inwardly froze, another profanity joining the others in his mind.

Detective Ormond.

_Shit!_

He had to remain tranquil and composed as the man walked towards him with a nod of the head. This was a sly one…It was true, the London Police were full of imbeciles, but it would be unrealistic to think that made up _all_ of them. Ormond was as quick-witted and wily as they came. The man tipped his hat in greeting when he approached Sanders and in return he barely dipped his head – only enough for courtesy's sake.

After they murmured each other's name in greeting, Sanders piped up with, "Pardon, Sir, I'm –"

Ormond caught the whiff of uneasiness on the lawyer as surely as if it were a scent of strong cologne and this broadened the small smirk as he said lightly, "In a _hurry,_ Mr. Sanders?"

Irked by the fact he was caught in having to remain composed, Sanders responded childishly, using the detective's name flippantly, which he knew the man despised, _"Avery."_

The detective straightened, brushing his cloak self-consciously as he replied, "That's Detective Ormond to the likes of you, Mr. Sanders."

"What are yeh doing around here?" Sanders had lost a little of his delicate patience.

Ormond raised his brow at the brusqueness and Sanders sighed inwardly, reminding himself it would not do to raise suspicion.

"Why... Looking for you, of course. I heard you...Might have some information regarding this whole case with the Demon of Fleet Street," was the detective's smooth reply.

Sanders laughed a little at that, "Now what fool would have said a thing like that?"

"Only a fool I believe we're both well aware of," the detective answered crisply, "He doesn't hold his alcohol very well, you know. Amazing really, the things that will pour from a man's mouth as fast as you can pour into his glass…The cretin that work in Her Majesty's police force, it never ceases to amaze me. I saw you lurking about him this day, then as if by a miraculous wonder the young sailor turns up. Interesting, don't you agree?"

"Ormond, I don't have time for games with yeh, I need to-"

The detective replied with mock concern, "Yes? In a rush to get somewhere, Sanders? Perhaps... Meeting someone of importance?"

Sanders was quite pleased with himself, considering the circumstances, at how he replied with such ease while he could feel the innards in the pit of his stomach turn to water, "No…No, 'course not...Let me buy yeh a drink, _Avery, _there are plenty good taverns around here, wouldn't yeh agree?"

Ormond smiled at this, then turned to Laura's tavern which Sanders had just made his quick exit, "Speaking of which - this is a little.....Shall I say..._Beneath you_ – _the Thorny Crown, _isn't it?"

Sanders laughed with ease at that, "Ha, there's a harlot in there I have my eyes set on, if yeh know what I mean. She's been harassing me to take her to bed, for quite some time, yeh know what they can be like," he started to point to the direction of north, "Anyway, I know a good place –"

"_Really?" _Ormond said, "Well, do introduce me to the girl, yes? I am quite intrigued!"

Sanders stood there, his hand still pointing in a direction, his mouth open a little as Ormond without further notice stepped into Laura's tavern, and turned, waiting for him to join him.

_Oh, bugger…_

The panic about Johanna throbbed painfully, but what could he do? If he made an excuse and vanished, that would peak the detective's curiosity and certain suspicion…He would have to quell his fear and go along with this…_Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger…_

And who in the hell could possibly be the harlot in this tavern, he had made up for the detective?


	28. Chapter 28

Booksroc, thank you as always!!

Reviews would be _lovely _people, as usual, if you enjoy this chapter.

Johanna next chapter, promise.

* * *

_**Ch****apter Twenty-Eight.**_

Sanders could hear his own shallow and nervous breathing as he re-entered _the Thorny Crown, _and he swallowed with great difficulty as Ormond clapped him on the back merrily and asked him to show him "the broad" who he was talking about.

Sanders tried to smile, "She'll be out in a minute," he said with false confidence, "The moment she realises I've returned, she'll have all sorts of notions that I've returned purely to see her and she'll be happy. Why don't yeh take a seat right there and I'll go buy us somethin' to quench our parched throats, yes?"

"Nonsense!" Ormond said, "Comrades don't sit patiently while another goes to buy a drink. I'll come with you to the bar. I would love to see the reaction of this girl when she sees you."

Without further word, Sanders had little choice but to guide the detective up to the bar with him. There were no available stools of course, this being a busy part of the day, but Sanders watched as Ormond tapped a burly looking man on the shoulder, accompanied by a simple order, "Move," It was not a harsh order, rather, it was indifferent, as if he expected to be obeyed on the spot. Sanders watched curiously as the burly man heaved himself up, looking down at the rake-thin man with a sense of sardonic amusement at being ordered by an insect in comparison to him – a stick insect who could easily be snapped into pieces.

"Move?" the man chuckled, with a hint of a Belgium accent, "Why? Who's asking?"

With a flourish of his hand, the detective pulled out from his cloak a copper badge and held it up, answering politely, "Scotland Yard, Sir, requests that you do. Will there be any trouble? If you would like to leave a complaint, I'll be more than obliged to take down your name."

The man's eyes widened and he bowed awkwardly, muttering apology after apology, then in less than a fleeting moment he had disappeared from the tavern, taking his fellow friend who had been sitting with him. Ormond smiled to himself and his success and sat down, then patted the stool beside him, "Come, Mr. Sanders, it seems that we have found luck with finding some seats."

Sanders sat beside him and looked about, looking for somebody to serve them when to his satisfaction Louise waltzed up with a dustpan and brush, after cleaning up the broken glass from the jugs. Ah, just the tart he needed for some distraction.

"Louise, love!" he called cheerfully.

Louise turned after her name was called but her smile faltered in fright when she saw the blunt lawyer, and she timidly approached them.

Ormond laughed at the sight of the pretty girl, "Is this the one who holds a candle to you, you dog? Funny that, she seems as anxious as a mouse! Is that what they call infatuation these days?"

_"No,_ no, of course not!" Sanders replied, "No, not Louise – now, what would yeh fancy to drink, Detective Ormond?"

He saw the girl's fear fade just a tiny bit as he purposefully made known his acquaintance's occupation, indeed, she even responded a little saucily, "You may have _anything_ that you fancy, Sir!"

"Is that so?" Ormond leaned forward, examining the pretty girl with interest, "Well, I know it sounds odd, but I don't really make it a habit of mine to drink, I think it's poison really. Do you have anything to eat in this establishment? Perhaps something _sweet?"_

"Oh!" Louise smiled, "Well, of course. I cook all the food here, you see, I'm awfully good at it, and…"

With this, Sanders lost interest and turned his ear from the girl's lies, looking frantically for any sign of Laura. Where the devil was she? She had been here just moments previous, when he had left!

Relieved, he saw her coming through the crowd of patrons scattered throughout the tavern and he bit back a curse of impatience when she stopped to laugh at a joke one of her customers made. He caught her eye, and with his hand gestured to come over to him. She looked over surprised that he had returned so suddenly, but she did as she was told – more from inquisitiveness than any need to obey him.

While Louise continued to name every single delectable item off the tavern menu and the detective listened with fascination more for her pretty face than what she was saying - and being distracted from everything else - Sanders grabbed Laura's hand and muttered under his breath with a hiss, _"Yeh want to be my lover!"_

The look of utter shock was not concealed from her features, but in this emotion her words were barely more than a hoarse whisper as she blinked, "I beg your _pardon?"_

_"Please!" _he begged in the same quiet but fraught tone, his one revealed eye trying to impart on her the urgency of the situation, "Please, I can't explain it right at this moment, but this man – it's just – yeh need to _trust_ me. I'll explain everything later – but just – this'll help your friend Anthony, _and_ Jo, just – just trust me!"

As completely absurd as this whole situation sounded, Laura stared at him for a moment and understood the dire need of it all, but she said bluntly, "Ten sovereign for it."

Sanders stared at her, his mouth agape as he hissed, "Yeh're _bartering _for a _price _when there are lives at –"

"Twelve sovereign," was her interruption.

He swore, gritting his teeth, "Seven!"

She seemed affronted at this paltry offer and said, her hand on her hip, _"Ten!"_

Sanders bit his lip, but conscious that the detective could take wind of this negotiation, finally grunted, _"Fine,"_ Laura smiled in triumph and he added, "But I want you to bake me a bleedin' chocolate cake as well, yeh hear?"

With discretion he pulled out his wallet and clasped the note in her hand which then quickly vanished never to be seen again in the depths of her bodice.

Sanders, now that his mind was relaxed about having to find a harlot, tuned back into the conversation between barmaid and detective, which had taken a disturbing turn from food to, "Oh, _this_ silly old thing," Louise giggled, her hands tracing the material of her frock, "This is from a boutique, right on Regent Street. Cost me an arm and a leg, but one has to look their best, don't you agree?"

_"Mr. Sanders!"_

The excited trill of Laura's tone distracted Ormond from his own pretty girl, and he turned curiously as Laura laughed and wound her arms around Sanders neck, "Oh, I _knew_ you'd be back Sir, you can't resist me can you?"

Sanders said nothing, but turned and smirked at Ormond, mouthing to him, "I told yeh!"

Ormond nodded with a shrug, while Louise expected to be reprimanded, looking stunned as this usually strict woman fell all over herself to be near the lawyer.

"Where were we?" Sanders said, his arrogance creeping back into his tone, "Ah, yes! Drinks! I'll have a pint, Louise, and Ormond here? Yeh wished to have something to eat, yes?"

While Louise listened, took down orders and ran to the kitchen to prepare what had been asked, Sanders feeling that he perhaps needed to act out his part better, leaned back into Laura fondly – although, rather awkwardly. This was watched by Ormond in amusement, who murmured, "Oh yes, a natural Casanova, you are Mr. Sanders."

Laura giggled wantonly; then whispered in his ear huskily so that only he could hear, "Oh, you're going to have to do better than that, _my lover!" _then coming from behind him, she plopped herself right on his lap, raising her feet on the bar, resting her head on his collarbone.

Sanders couldn't repress a soft gasp as she sat so intimately on him – involuntarily his skin tingled – when was the last time he had ever been so close to a woman? He had taken them to bed of course in his past, but it was an odd thing that he realised none had ever sat on his lap. He could see the touch of auburn in her hair, his nostrils were filled with the faint trace of cinnamon on her skin as well as buttermilk spice. Good God! She was a witch to make him so fidgety!

In a moment Louise returned and served them what they had ordered. But as Laura had not reprimanded her for dilly-dallying she continued to flirt with her new favourite customer while Sanders had to contend with Laura whispering sweet nothings in his ear, in such a tingling way that _no woman _should know how.

"Oh yes!" Louise said eagerly, "We have a dart board at the back of the tavern and we have competitions here every Thursday night."

"I would be much obliged if you could show me this dart board," Ormond smiled and stood, holding out his hand, and giggling, Louise took it and flounced off, leading the way.

"That poor man," Laura said softly with a snigger, her face merely inches away from Sanders, "He'll never rid himself off her now," she clapped her hands on her lap, "Now, here are more important matters at hand! _Why _were you so _desperate_ for me to play the part of your lover, hmm?" she added mischievously, "You're handsome enough not to have to _pay me _you know. A little rugged around the edges and your hair needs a decent cut of course, but handsome enough in a Heathcliff sort of way."

Sanders grunted at this back-handed compliment (and it did not help that the hussy was thoroughly amused and laughed in glee at his response), but he quickly made her realise the facts about who he was, his nosy and clever disposition and the danger Johanna would be in if Ormond caught even a bit of suspicion that he was aware of her whereabouts. She nodded solemnly after he told her and said quietly, "I understand."

There was a silence between them, before Sanders asked, "Oh – where is your bairn?"

"Jacob?"

_"No!"_ he could not help reply with a hint of playful sarcasm, "I meant one of your other many secret bastards you have lying around!"

She looked at him sharply, "Insinuate that title with my boy again Mr. Sanders and I'll take the money you just gave me and –"

"Easy lass, easy," a prick of guilt did indeed flare up inside him at the way she quickly defended her little imp with his careless words, and his hands caressed her waist, "I'm sorry, I am. _I'm_ the bastard, but yeh mustn't mind me."

She chewed her lip, mulling over his apology for a moment and apparently was satisfied when she shrugged a little, "It's alright, I suppose. Anyway, Jacob is in my room now, playing with his toy soldiers. A good boy he is, so very quiet."

"Mm," Sanders replied thoughtfully, and noticed she was looking over his shoulder subtly.

"What is it?"

"He's looking at us…Sly one – he's not so infatuated with Louise as he made out. I think he wanted to see how we would act once he's gone…Do you want to give him a show?" Laura asked roguishly.

"Show?" Sanders asked confused, but he was answered with her finger being placed under his chin, and her soft lips lingering over his.

He moaned a little at this surprise kiss, the last kiss he had had – was it over a year ago? It had been a rushed affair, while he had been impatient to discover the legs of the young woman under the maddeningly restricting layers of lace and petticoat of her expensive gown. He couldn't remember now really what she had looked like, besides the fact she had had nutbrown hair, or what scent befriended her skin, all he remembered was his frantic desire while he pushed her against a wall, and her coarse little laugh as she had giggled that she had _never_ _been to bed with a pirate before_. It was this little jest about his eye-patch that had made him turn cold, that had made him pull away and spurn any more of her touch. She had been a lady, the daughter of an esteemed gentleman, yet this cheap barmaid seated in his lap right now, who had already given birth to an illegitimate child, her affection was much more natural – her soft pink tongue nestled in his mouth, her warm arms around him, while the aromas of a wholesome kitchen and of sweet homemade desserts weaved upon her body.

Oh…Lord Almighty.

"He's not looking now," she was whispering to him a few moments after the kiss.

"Hmm?" he asked, as his hand circled her back.

"That detective fellow – his attention is upon Louise again, I worry about that girl, throwing herself at any man but never mind, she's not my kin to worry about. Shouldn't you go find Miss Barker now?"

"Miss – Miss Bark – _Jo!"_

Good God, what devilish spell had she cast upon him to make him forget his dear Jo! He pushed Laura off of his lap in a most unceremonious way – she nearly lost her balance as she landed on the ground, and he turned to bolt, but first growled at her, as if his moment of vagueness had been all her fault, "I still want my bleedin' chocolate cake, is that understood girl?"

Then he fled from _the Thorny Crown _to return to the urgent business of finding Johanna Barker, and he ran as if the hounds of Hell chased after him, away from the prying detective and the barmaid who smelled of cinnamon.


	29. Chapter 29

Thank you heaps Vicki, haha, yes, it was meant to be funny...And as for the summary, hmm...Still undecided on you-know-what! Ta!

Reviews'd be lovely people!

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_**Ch****apter Twenty-Nine.**_

Sander's feet were pounding down the street as he made himself as far away from the tavern as he could before he hailed down a hansom to take him to Oakland Cemetery. He felt like a fool. He struggled for breath as he sat in the rocking carriage, his hands on his sides while he recovered from a cramp, as he tried to remember the last time he had sprinted so far. It must have been when he was a child, running down streets with houses that sported broken windows patched with rags and paper. A far cry from the apartment he owned in the West End now, where he could afford the whole house as opposed to the one small room he had shared with his mother in his past. Those days played over his mind as he looked out at the passing scenery, lord how did he survive that childhood of being forever starving? Being hungry wasn't a momentary feeling with him, it had been a constant, gnawing in the pit of his stomach, where it seemed the weak broth and coarse bread he had to live on was only successful in making him hungrier than before he had had the meal.

He still didn't like to remember being given his first pay as a young lawyer. He had looked at the unfamiliar pound notes in wonder, half expecting a copper's hand to grasp his shoulder and inform him he was being arrested for stealing. What had been the first thing he had done with his money? Any noble man would have bought his long-suffering mother a trinket, or looked into more appropriate lodgings. But no, not he. He had excitedly bought a whole chicken and had sat on the street like some urchin, tearing pieces of the meat off and wolfing it down, never minding that the heat scalded his mouth. He had eaten a whole chicken and for once his perpetual hunger faded. He had rested against a wall, a little ashamed at such fevered gluttony while he tossed the carcass to passing stray dogs who attacked it enthusiastically – then he felt ashamed at such waste…His mother would have used that to make a soup. Then his face twitched, _hell no _would they ever be having soup again.

After awhile the carriage stopped and he stepped out, paying the driver. He stared at the cemetery, sighing inwardly. It was so vast it would take him eons to find Jo. Raking his fingers through his hair he began stepping forward, until he saw a young child by the gates, with a basketful of flowers.

"A flow'r f'r a penny, Sir?" her faint voice pleaded to him as he walked past.

He looked down upon her, at the measly little shawl that barely covered her small shoulders and the straw hat which covered stringy brown hair which looked like it needed to be washed. He looked at her with disdain and utter pity at her obvious poverty which had mirrored his own from youth; he bet she had lice…He could feel his own skin itching from just the mere memory of such depravity.

"I don' have a penny on me," he said, making her blink with disappointment. He rifled through his pockets, "But I do have one of these," holding out a shiny pound coin.

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped when he placed it in her palm and took a pink rose - she could barely muster a thank you. He chuckled a little at this act of muteness and she threw her arms around him.

She then looked up and as if in wonder, she asked him looking at his eye-patch, "'R yee a pirate, Sir?"

Such an innocent question from a wee thing like her made him laugh jovially and he tapped the side of his nose with his finger, "Just don' tell the coppers that Blackbeard is here, hmm?"

She shook her head fervently, then turned and fled and smiling to himself, he then moved on through the cemetery gates, whistling quietly as he began his search..

Well, the rich do like to make a fuss of their death, he noted as he made his way through the labyrinth of tombstones. Monuments of marble angels and ivory cherubs followed his path as he winded through, calling now and again for Johanna, without a word of reply.

He stopped frustrated and went to take his cigarette case out of his back pocket. His hand found nothing. Confused he checked his other pockets – his wallet wasn't even there. But he was sure he had his wallet when – he had to have had his wallet, he had paid the driver, then replaced it in his coat when he had seen the little flower girl…

That little witch had tricked him! The moment she had hugged him in _gratitude! _That little toad! Had stolen from him right under his nose! He was dumbfounded, and in his confusion he continued to search for Johanna, as there was little else to do. There was no point in finding that little girl; she would have vanished already, never to be found again.

He expected to spend far more time searching for Johanna, but only a few moments later came her figure walking towards him. She stopped when she saw him and he stopped as well. There was a wide space between them as they examined each other.

"You found my note…" she said quietly.

"Oh! Yeh _think?"_ he spat at her, his whole anger bubbling over as he stomped towards her, "Do yeh have _any idea _what yeh just did could have cost yeh? Could have cost _me? _Could have cost _yehr pretty sweeatheart?"_

She shrank from him as if he had physically struck her, stuttering, "I – I'm s – sorry. I'm s – so s – so sorry, but – but I needed to come here! I n-needed t-to p-pay m-my r-respects –"

"Yehr _respects?"_ he thundered, "What do yeh mean? The bleedin' Judge hasn't even been murdered a week and with this impending case, do yeh really think he would have been buried already? Yeh risked all our necks and he wasn't –"

She was weeping noisily now, her hand shaking and moving to her throat, "Not him – I wasn't here to see _him."_

She was in such a state that the anger which had been simmering began to fade a little. She was not much more than a child…A child who had been caged her whole life – and where was the place she saw fit to run to the moment the cage doors were flung open? A bleedin' graveyard! Oh, how he fought the urge to take her in his arms right then and there. He could give her such a stable life…He felt disgrace for himself and how he had felt with that Laura woman in his arms – a loose woman, one who would kiss an almost stranger with barely any thought except if she were given money, one who clouded his senses, his logic, his rationale…

What could the life of a sailor bring her? Wandering coursed through his veins, as surely as his mortal blood. She deserved security and a stable life, did she not? She had been deprived of the most basic of pleasures growing up – being taken to the theatre, walking through the public gardens, being _loved…_A husband constantly at sea could never provide her with that.

"Yeh weren't here to see him?" he asked her softly, "Then pray Jo, tell me, who were yeh here to see?"

"My Mother," she managed to say between sniffling, "He told me once years ago, that she was safe, that he had buried her here, in his mausoleum. I had had a nightmare once, that my Mother's ghost wandered the streets of London, and she was alone – it had started after an odd day. Mr. Turpin, he had allowed me to go to the shops with him – only for a short time though. This was a treat – he was rare in allowing me to leave the house. A crazy woman, a lunatic – she threw herself at me, rambling horrible things. It upset me so much you see. I was only small, and Mr. Turpin carried me back home after rescuing me from her clutches, comforting me. Then later I dreamed – it must have been my mind playing tricks because my own Mother had succumbed to madness. I dreamed the lady was my Mother, but that she were a ghost. I woke up screaming…Mr. Turpin assured me my Mother's body was safe and that she had had a good Christian burial. He said she was buried here, in the finest cemetery in London," she paused, crying a little more, "It was yet another lie, Dane. Another lie of his – he lied to me so many times – my whole life has been one big lie. I have spent so long today scouring every tombstone for a _Lucy Barker _and there is nothing, nothing!"

Sanders moved forward silently, then cupped her face gently with his hands, "My poor, dear Jo," he murmured, and bent down, resting his cheek upon hers, as she continued to weep, "Dane, _where_ is she? What became of my Mother?"


	30. Chapter 30

Thank you heaps Vicki, as always. I thought of POTO in 15 writing that, and you're right, Jo is pathetic. It's odd, she's the one character I can't quite figure out.

Please guys, if you like, be lovely and review! It's chapter thirty, that's a milestone, right? You knoooooooow you want to review. I know I was gone for ages, but I have written a few chapters pretty damn quickly for you. :)

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_**Ch****apter Thirty.**_

Detective Ormond was most disgruntled as he left _the Thorny Crown. _He knew that Sanders sod was up to _something_, he knew it the moment he saw him bolting from the tavern in the first place, and now his suspicions were provoked once more that the mongrel had slipped under his notice and vanished. He bawled his fist in frustration as he strode away. No matter, he would find him soon enough; and that lovely little blonde at the tavern would prove useful in finding out information. He had tried to question her through honeyed words even then – for a loose tart she was as innocent as a doe. He had gotten no answers yet of course, but it was like breaking a colt really - he had to gain her trust to reap any sort of reward. But he knew she had some sort of information, by the way she hesitated to answer any questions. Give her a glass of fine wine and she would be sure to be _much _more malleable in answering questions. Although, knowing her kind he needn't waste too much money on the wine, a tipsy woman was a tipsy woman no matter what was poured down their throats. Still, she was very pretty, and there was something endearing about her naive giggle and the way she said his occupation, as if being a _detective _was merely one slight step beneath being a prince. Although, to be fair to her, knowing the louts who would occupy her tavern, perhaps this wasn't as far-fetched as it sounded. A civil servant would of course be far more appealing than an unemployed ruffian or a drunken stableman.

"Do you have any other gowns, my dear?" he had asked her with such a smile as she showed him the dart boards.

"Oh yes," she had answered, "Why, don't you like this one?"

"Oh I do," he assured her sweetly, "But I have a fancy to take you to the theatre tomorrow night – oh, perhaps I am overstepping the boundaries. Do you have a brother or father I need to ask permission to take you out?" then he said with dread, "Oh, do forgive me if you have a sweetheart – only, I noticed you had no ring before and I deduced you didn't have a husband or were betrothed…"

Like the little mouse she was – yes, he would call her a mouse, a trusting little creature you found out in the country, not one of the ugly, diseased rodents that haunted the corners of London's dark dens – she smiled and grasped on to his kind words similar to a child with sweets. Quite possibly swooning over the fact that he had been _so taken with her _that he had asked if a father or brother's permission needed to be sought.

"I've never been to the theatre before, well a _proper_ one anyway that you surely would be talking about," she gushed, "But I'm sure I can find a decent gown. And it's perfectly alright to ask me, my family wouldn't bother to interfere."

"Good, good," he replied, "That relieves me indeed. A hansom will pick you up tomorrow at 6 and we will dine together before seeing a play at the Adelphi. A charming piece is playing there at the moment, an adaption of a French musical."

Her pretty little alabaster brow furrowed at this with unease, "I – I don't speak French, Sir," was her grievance when pressed by him, "I'm afraid I'll embarrass myself if you ask me what I think of the play and I don't know what's going on."

He laughed genuinely at this and without thinking caressed her cheek with his knuckle gently, "It's an _adaption _dear, it will be in the good old Queen's English. There is no need to fear."

Her brow smoothed itself like velvet and he was pleased to placate her. Pretty little thing _indeed, _his little mouse was_. _He could almost enjoy himself being with her, perhaps, even if he wasn't just utilising her to find out information. Oh, it was almost _far _too easy.

And so that was settled, he had waved the carrot to the donkey, so to speak. And he tried again to get her to talk about Dane Sanders. He was obviously up to something – Ormond was half insulted that they thought thrusting the pretty barmaid in front of him would distract him to all else. He had heard their secret muttering, the hushed negotiations between Sanders and that tart. Why would he invent a story about a pining barmaid to explain his being in this particular tavern? The same day that Anthony Hope was taken into custody too and he _knew _Sanders had something to do with _that. _The press called him _Silver-Tongued Sanders _but he wasn't as clever as they or especially he liked to think.

They were standing at the back of the tavern at this point in the conversation, as Ormond had made up a story about dartboards so he could witness Sanders where he thought he wasn't being watched.

"So you've only seen Mr. Sanders in this tavern today?" he asked Louise absentmindedly, as if it really wasn't important, just a passing comment.

"Well, yes, Sir. But he's been in and out, in and out, in and out all day in such a mad rush," Louise answered, then started talking about some other trivial blather, quickly, as if she hoped he wouldn't guess that it was deliberate.

He had taken his attention off Sanders and his whore for only a minute or so and when he returned his glance the bastard had _gone._

Cutting Louise off mid-sentence without even saying a word, he stomped up to the counter where the woman was washing glasses nonchalantly.

_"Where is he?" _he demanded.

"Who?" she answered with infuriating purposeful ignorance, "Oh, Mr. Sanders? _Prior engagement _unfortunately, that he apparently just remembered_. _No idea where though – _hey,_ where are you going? His drink and your cake haven't been paid for!"

Ormond stopped in mid-step as he had swivelled around to depart but he turned back glowering in such a way that would make Lucifer quiver. He threw a few coins at her, then left in frustration.

He was storming down the streets now, when unexpectedly his mood picked up. From the corner of his eye he saw a young boy he recognised – a head of dark curls that any wig maker would envy. A young lad who had managed to resist arrest on many occasions, a well-known pickpocket. Ormond swerved in his direction, sweeping over the street in a few steps. He had to snicker to himself as he saw the boy stake out his next victim, an elderly man bending over a fruit stall.

The London Police had named the boy the Artful Dodger, after a Dickens's character who was also a pickpocket. An apt name quite possibly, but Ormond loathed such things. Call them for what they are – none of this embellishing. The press did enough of that, spinning fiction from fact. It should be the law's concern to stay factual. He loathed the title that had been given to the barber murderer too – the _Demon Barber. _He was no demon. He was a man. A sick, twisted man and all he deserved was a place reserved in Hell now that he was dead and had escaped mortal justice. The nicknames only served to add mystique and offer infamy, and criminals like that – twisted murderers and child pickpockets, they didn't deserve _any_ type of renown. The public were already in a frenzy because of a _demon barber, _a myth, a story, pure bloody gossip and speculation not based on truth, but only on that human vice that people seemed to thrive on - being frightened but _revelling _in the fear, as idiots do with ghost stories_. _Ridiculous. Pure ridiculousness.

He nearly had his hand on the boy's shoulder, only the lad realised a moment too soon that he was about to be caught and he sprinted as fast as a child fearful of the law _could_ run. Ormond set chase, dodging people who were in the way and jumping over obstacles such as an upturned cart. He barely heard a little girl screaming the boy's name during the chase but he felt her when he collided into her and both fell hard to the street.

Pain flashed through the palms of his hands and when he sat himself up he saw the crimson grazes embedded into his flesh, where the skin was torn. The little girl was whimpering herself in pain, but trying to collect flowers that had fallen everywhere out of her little basket in a frenzied hurry, before he could catch her. No such luck for the little wretch – he had lost the boy because of her, she would have to suffer his punishment.

He stood up and grabbed her small little bony wrist roughly, "You'll pay for that you little brat! Impeding the hand of justice. Are you happy now? – Your little friend couldn't have cared less about _your_ fate, when you were so quick to protect _his!"_

The little girl was bubbling with tears now, and he snickered when he saw a wallet and a silver cigarette case had fallen from her basket as well as the flowers. Still grasping on to her he bent down and took up the obviously stolen goods.

"Ah, you're a little thief too, child?"

The little girl only snivelled a reply.

"What's your name anyway? Speak now or I won't be merciful in the slightest!"

"Kestrel," her faint voice could barely be heard.

He flipped through the wallet, seeing wads of money, but froze when a certain name and address of a lawyer were embroidered with yellow stitching inside…No…_No, _this cannot be happening…

"Where – where did you get these from, little Kestrel?" he looked down at the child, making sure to soften his tone somewhat.

"N–nowhere…" the girl stuttered in a panic, "I swear to yee!"

Ormond smiled – not a kind smile – and bent down on one knee, examining her till he was sure if he shouted "Boo!" the child would soil her underthings, and said with a sneer, "Now, now, child...Weren't you ever told that children who don't tell the truth _burn in the fires of hell?"_

She looked at him with such terror, that she really did resemble her namesake ensnared in a hunter's trap, trying to escape in a panic, its tiny heart beating rapidly, but its little wings unable to fly due to being broken, and his smirk became broader, "I'll ask you again, girl...Where did you get these?"

"Bl-Bl-Blackb-beard," was her earnest reply.

Ormond blinked in confusion for but a moment, but then it dawned on him, "Blackbeard? Ohh... An eyepatch over his face like this?" with his free hand he cupped it over one eye.

Little Kestrel nodded her head fervently, "Un hunh! Jus' like that Sir! Only, he tol' me not to tell the coppers!"

"I'd expect he'd say something of the sort," Ormond muttered under his breath, then lightened his tone as he pulled all the money from the lawyer's wallet and handed it to the child, along with a few coins from his own pocket, "Good, very good, angel…Here – now don't let me catch you again, all right, little one?"

She shook her head but said quickly, "Y-Yes, thank thee Sir!" and he laughed inwardly at her paradox of an answer.

Ormond let go of her hand, placed the empty wallet and the silver cigarette case in his pocket and gathered the rest of the flowers she had not been able to retrieve before he had seized her back into her basket and handed it to her, "Oh, and...Might you tell me, dear, where did you see this Blackbeard?"

"Cemetary," she answered, "Th' one where th' rich people are buried! Not so long ago, Sir!"

"I see..." he said standing up, after he had finished with her, "Run off now, and be a good girl for the rest of the day. And tell that pickpocket friend of yours that Detective Ormond is looking for him."

When it was obvious she was given freedom, Kestrel loitered no further and bolted off after nodding and attempting a hideous curtsy.

Ormond smirked to himself, well this afternoon wasn't such a waste after all. It seemed he hadn't lost the scoundrel, and he turned to head towards the cemetery, "First an angel," he murmured to himself, "Now to catch me a bleeding annoying devil!"


	31. Chapter 31

Thank you guys! Ehhhhhh, I've possibly lost all my readers...Many apologies for the colossal lapse.

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_**Chapter Thirty-One.**_

Sanders was in quite the predicament as he held Miss Johanna Barker in his arms. He knew the moment she pulled away he would have to tell her the truth of her Mother, the truth that he knew anyway. He could not lie to her, not about this, nor could he delay it. It had to come from him – the moment she was taken to the police, he could not be in control of what she was told or what she would hear. But there was only so much truth a person could take! In one day she had learned that her Father had been the most despicable and feared man in all of the United Kingdom, and to now find out that the man who had raised her – a man she hated, but who had raised her (only a fool would think her feelings towards the Judge would just be hate. They would be conflicted as to the complexity of it) - was not only a horrible man, but an evil one. Who had orchestrated the very strings of not only her life, but of her parents, who had destroyed them.

He held her tighter for one moment, wishing he could shield her from all of this. But he blinked, as she slipped from his arms and murmured in his ear, "Please Dane. Don't underestimate me. I know my family's history is bleak; I have prepared myself for whatever it is. But the _not knowing _– that has been the dreadful burden I have had to carry all of my life."

He nodded slowly and took her hand in his, looking around warily. There was nobody else in the cemetery, but you could never be certain who could pop up. He smiled a grim smile, "Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

They meandered through the vast web of graves – of monumental flowers, of concrete angels, until they found a secluded bench and seated themselves. They shared a few moments of silence until Sanders sighed and could delay it no further.

"Yehr Mother was from the Armstrong family," he began and he slowly wove the truth into a tale for her. Of how she had been from wealth, who had succumbed to a young and handsome barber. How she had forsaken her family's riches for the small apartment, sharing with the man she loved…The very room in fact, where Johanna had seen the Demon Barber murder the Judge. How all memory and evidence of her being from an esteemed family had been erased, and the young Lucy Armstrong became Mrs. Barker – and the only slight semblance of the wealth she had once known had been spent on her wedding present to her bridegroom – a box of silver razors.

He paused to let that sink in, and from the corner of his eye he watched her. She sat there silently, her hands folded neatly in her lap, till she said slowly in surprise, "Are the Armstrong family you speak of, the executives of the Bank of England? On Threadneedle Street?"

"Yes, the very ones."

She blinked and said nothing, only breathed in a little slower, then, "Oh my…She must have loved my Father very much, to sacrifice that sort of life…"

"Indeed," he paused, his gut full of dread, but forced himself to continue, "And that is where Judge Turpin comes into play."

She turned her face to look at him, "Oh?"

"Yes…Yeh see, at that time he was looking for a bride and she was of age. She had caught his eye and he was under negotiations with her Father to marry her. But then there was the scandal of Miss Armstrong running off with Benjamin Barker, the simple barber. He had – rather naively, in an attempt to display courtesy to her family – asked for her hand himself and was laughed off the estate. After she ran away with him she was found in hiding with him in an inn, and brought back of course, but she had already caused disgrace for her family in society. The damage was done, and her utter refusal to marry the Judge and have the shame swept under the rug sealed it. She was thrown out with nothing, no possessions and no name, for they did not want to know her anymore. The only thing she was given was a little money, secretly, from a sympathetic Grandmother who could do no more for her given the family's staunch disgust with Miss Lucy. But it seems that the Judge was so taken with her that her marriage to the barber, and then even the birth of their child – yeh, Johanna – would not desist his ardour for her. In fact, it simply made it worse. He hunted her down with no repose. He sent her gifts, implored her – even tried to win her by using her child as justification for her leaving her husband, saying what kind of a life is that of a lady's daughter, with no proper training in accomplishments, no education…If she left with him he could repair the estrangement with her family, and doesn't little Johanna deserve her rightful inheritance from her family? Finally he had done everything that was possible in trying to convince Mrs. Barker with her refusing him…Johanna, all that was left was to threaten Benjamin, harm him, to gain the attention of Mrs. Barker."

Johanna's head was lowered as she took all of this in, and he clasped her hand in his beseechingly, "Must I go on, Jo? Isn' that enough? Can't yeh guess the rest?"

She said nothing, and he swallowed, "O' course not, I'm a fool to ask," he brought her hand to his mouth in a soft kiss and continued gently, "As yeh are aware, Judge Turpin was a powerful man. And often enough powerful men are corrupt. He was no saint, Jo, and I would imagine what was once infatuation for yehr Mother, soon became obsession. I would imagine that it ended up that it was not even about her. But the fact she would trade everything she had, all the rights of a gentlemen's daughter, to share a simple room with one less than her. I would imagine that would have intrigued the Judge, but also would have infuriated him immeasurably. I would imagine it would drive him mad – what on earth did Benjamin Barker have that would cause Lucy Armstrong to sacrifice everything? And what on earth was it that he himself lacked?"

"You're stalling, Dane," Johanna said perceptively, "Please tell me what happened."

There was a long pause before he finally continued, "He planted false evidence and had yehr Father convicted of petty theft, and sent far away to the colonies so he could swoop in and take what he deemed his rightful place as Miss Lucy's new husband. I have examined every court transcript, all of the evidence. It was such a vile miscarriage of the justice it would be laughable if it weren't true. Yehr Father was a _good _man, Jo. A good man and Judge Turpin destroyed him."

Johanna closed her eyes to try and compose herself and her voice wavered as she asked, "And my Mother, Dane – what of my Mother?"

Sanders chewed his lower lip and said tentatively, "I would not tell yeh this in normal circumstances, but only because I would rather yeh hear such a thing from me where I can comfort yeh, am I to tell yeh what happened to –"

"_For God's sake, stop hesitating and stammering, this is about my life! I have every right to know!"_

"Yes, yes, of course – easy, Jo, easy…What I speak of is only hearsay – there is no real _proof _yeh see, it's only from rumour…But rumour is really all we have. After yehr Father was convicted and sent in chains away on a convict ship, the Judge sent for yehr Mother, promising that he would make amends. He had been wrong to do what he had done to Benjamin. And so the poor woman went to a party…It seems now that it was a foolish thing to do, but we have the benefit of hindsight. The poor girl was desperate and distraught – for yeh see, once a man was sent to the colonies, he was never seen again. They did their sentence which was always for years and years, and then when it was done, if they survived, they could rarely afford passage back to England. Lucy Barker must have known her husband was not the most robust of men, she must have known there wouldn't be much chance of him surviving such hell. So she went to the Judge expecting mercy, and…" here Sander's voice trailed and wilted to silence for a moment, till he said hoarsely, "It is said that no such mercy was offered. That he taunted her, saying Benjamin Barker had turned coward and thrown himself from the ship, chained, into the sea where he met his watery grave. And then the Judge…The Judge forced himself upon her, Jo – that's what they say anyway. I suppose he had imagined he had finally won. That Miss Lucy had no choice but to marry him now Benjamin was dead to her and she had her daughter to care for. Her family refused to believe she existed anymore, her husband was gone, the only choices she had was to either accept his hand or work in a brothel. Miss Lucy may have given everything up for Benjamin, but she was a lady at heart, she could never degrade herself so. And he very well knew it, expecting her to finally succumb to him of her own – what he perceived – free will. Only…Only she did something he did not expect. She –"

"Poisoned herself," Johanna said blankly, and Sanders made a soothing sound, "It all makes sense now, I suppose…I thought she merely abandoned me. I thought she was merely mad. But after everything…It…It makes sense…So – so she is dead?"

"Mmm…There are no records of it, my dear, I really cannot say…All we know is, that she vanished."

They sat there in silence as Sanders lamented the young girl who's life had been spent in solitude, concealing her emotions, concealing her heart. He did not know how she was processing such information. She merely sat there like the Snow Queen. Throughout his research he had come to think that Lucy Barker had been the warmest of people. Little Jo must emulate the reservedness of her Father. Though, was that reserve from her Father? Or because of the quiet, closed off life she had endured?

He felt he had to say _something _as she just sat there silently, so he squeezed her hand and said with as much tenderness as he could, "Yehr Father was _Benjamin Barker_, a good and respectable man. It was the Judge that created Sweeney Todd, the deranged killer Jo, do yeh understand? When yeh think of yehr Father, I want yeh to think of the man who was worthy enough to steal away yehr Mother's heart, the heart of a gentleman's daughter. That's not a bad effort for a lad from the working house. Don't yeh see now, how special he must have been? So can yeh do that for me, Jo?"

She said nothing but closed her eyes, her face still lowered. Such a beautiful young thing, that at that moment Sanders decided to Hell with everything, and with his hand he gently brought her face towards him. His words were quiet and affectionate as he murmured, "Let me have yeh, dear. Let me be the one to protect yeh. I've waited so long, wanted yeh so long. Yeh have endured so much, my little Jo and have become so cold. I know why yeh have become so distant, I know so much about yeh. The Sailor…That Hope fellow, he is a noble man, but Jo dear, I don't think I need to tell yeh that he is not right for yeh. He couldn't possibly begin to understand. He thinks that _love _conquers all, don't he? He isn't right for yeh – but if yeh would only let _me. _Please, Jo…" he looked down at her as her eyes opened and gazed at him curiously. She still said nothing and he could not help but cup her face with his hands and dip his head down to capture her sweet, petite little mouth in a kiss, but she moved her head away at once before he could do so.

Not perturbed by this he rested his cheek against hers, pleading with her softly, till she said with tears grazing her eyelashes, "It's all changed, Dane. You've changed everything and now it's all ruined. Why did you have to disappoint me so, with this?"

She moved away from him and stood, hitching up her skirts she trotted off as fast as she could from him. Sanders lent back in the bench to compose himself, before he followed slowly, not liking the fact that her dejection cut him more than he thought it should. That look of utter _disgust _on her face before she fled would not leave him. That sort of look should only ever be reserved for bastards like the Judge Turpin, who cared nothing for her.

He stood though to follow, "Jo!" and quickened his pace till he caught up with her. Only then, a jolt of panic seized him when they both stopped, as Detective Avery Ormond stood in front of them with a sly smile. He nodded slightly at Sanders in acknowledgement, then bowed for Johanna, taking off his hat, "Miss Johanna Barker, I presume? A pleasure to finally find you at last! You've _no idea _how we've all at the headquarters have been _dying _to have a _little chat _with you. And Sanders!" he took out a wallet and cigarette case from the inside of his coat pocket, "I do believe these belong to you. How fortunate _indeed _that we bumped into each other."


	32. Chapter 32

_**Chapter Thirty-Two.**_

Three hours had passed and Dane Sanders was on his eighth cigarette.

Inhale. Exhale. Flick of the ash.

He had to calm himself – he knew he was being irrational, but the sight of Johanna Barker breaking out into fitful screams as she was dragged into a cell had not been good for his nerves. The _bastards _all o' them! The only reason they were doing this was out of pure venomous spite, because they hated him! Because they hated the fact that no matter what they tried to do, he would always best them! He had had his suspension overturned and it _killed _them. As if she were any real risk of fleeing! They had decided to keep her in a cell overnight till they could have a court session to see if she were eligible for bail. That poor girl trapped in that small, dirty cell that smelled of piss and vomit, all night.

Sanders stood up abruptly, nursing his fingers as he swore violently, when his dark thoughts made him clamp onto the cigarette, crushing the delicate paper as the embers bit at his flesh hotly.

He sucked his fingers sulkily, as he thought of everything that had just occurred.

* * *

_Johanna had stopped in fright as she bumped into the Detective, like a frightened doe caught in a trap. She stepped back, uncertainly, as he bowed at her with a flourish._

_"Miss Johanna Barker, I presume? A pleasure to finally find you at last! You've _no idea _how we've all at the headquarters have been _dying _to have a _little chat _with you. And Sanders! I do believe these belong to you. How fortunate _indeed _that we bumped into each other."_

_The girl turned to look at Sanders wildly, in doubt at what to say or do; especially when from inside his coat he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. After the initial shock however, Sanders was in his element as he moved forward, "Ah, surely there's no point in using those, Avery old friend, hmm?" he smiled, "After all, when somebody voluntarily turns themselves in, then there is no need for such measures!"_

_Detective Ormond turned around full circle looking around in feigned surprise, "That's interesting, considering this isn't the police headquarters…It seems to be a cemetery – and I seem to have caught you both. I see no evidence of voluntarily turning in."_

_Sanders laughed, "Yeh made a joke, old boy! And not bad for a first try. Good for yeh!" he clapped the Detective on the back merrily, "But surely somebody as proficient as yehrself would see the obviousness of the situation. Miss Barker here, having endured such fright at the news of her guardian's murder went into shock. After she recovered, she saw sense and sent me a note, begging me to meet her here where I would then accompany her to the police. There is no sign of struggle here, is there Detective? It really is just as well yeh bumped into us," he took his cigarette case and wallet from Ormond with a big smile, "For yeh've saved us the trouble of having to hail a carriage I assume? Good man."_

_Ormond looked from the timid girl to the smug lawyer and grimaced, "You are full of it, Sanders, but as you say, there seems to be no sign of struggle. We will discuss this back at headquarters," he eyed the girl once more and then returned the handcuffs to the inside of his coat and took her arm securely instead, "If you don't mind, Miss." _

_It did not escape him as she grasped hold of her lawyer's hand on the other side of her, and the gentle way he held it. Was Dane Sanders having a love affair with Turpin's ward? But wasn't it rumoured she was with that Sailor idiot? Or perhaps she was using them both for her gain._

_He did not inform Sanders that his suspension had been overturned till they had reached the headquarters. The lout was far too smug as it was and he wanted a relatively peaceful ride home, examining the girl and making mental notes about what he thought of her. By the time they had reached headquarters he had noted that she was innocent. Of course he would need evidence, and he wasn't fooled by her innocent demeanour – it was always the innocent ones more often than not who were in fact guilty. But he had a feeling about her, and his feelings were rarely wrong. Still, he knew she knew things and that was necessary. He would have to wring the truth out of her before the Silver-Tongued Serpent crafted whatever story he saw fit from her. _

_They parked out the back, but it was no use avoiding the damned press. They had been lying in wait like spiders, and the moment they saw the girl the three of them were surrounded at once. Sanders swore at them angrily, keeping the girl close, and Ormond bashed whoever dared come near with his baton. _

_She was shaken as the door closed behind them, leaving the press out, especially when the police sitting around their desks stood up at once in shock at the sudden sight of her. Ormond was cranky from the irritating journey from the carriage to the headquarters and he hissed at them, "One would suspect she's the first woman you lot have ever laid eyes on. Bloody make sure the interview room is clear, now!"_

_"I'm not leaving my client!" Sanders interjected._

_Ormond turned to him with a sneer, "Of course, dear Sanders, we wouldn't dream of that. Your suspension has been lifted so I suppose you have every right to be with whoever you choose. Everything is by the book here – something I suppose you are not familiar with!"_

_Ormond stormed off while Johanna and Sanders stood close to each other, still holding hands._

_"You will not abandon me?" she whispered quietly, so quiet he barely heard her._

_"Abandon yeh? Whatever for?" he asked softly, but turned his eyes away from her as she looked at him, then muttered, "Don't be absurd, girl. What I said before…I don't back down from my words. I meant what I said. Yeh need me. But I spoke too soon; too rashly…I need to earn yehr hand first."_

_She let go of his hand then, letting hers drop to her side and said carefully, "You must understand Dane, I belong to Anthony –"_

_"Do yeh love him?"_

_She sneered at such a question, "That's a joke coming from you, isn't it, Dane? You who scorn at the very _idea _of such weakness. So what does love matter to you?"_

* * *

The pain in Sander's fingers had eased a little, but he was still stung by that comment Johanna had said to him just before the first interview had commenced. She had no right to be so sharp with him. None. And she was right that _love _didn't matter. It never mattered in the slightest.


	33. Chapter 33

Ah, hi Ravencaller! Thank you. And yes, haha, Sanders is a bit full of himself..

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty-Three.**_

Anthony was daydreaming. Well, there wasn't much else to do, sitting alone in a small cell. His sister had left some time ago as there was only a short amount of time he could have visitors. He wondered what was happening with Johanna, and prayed Dane Sanders knew what he was doing. Everything was such a mess…

He turned to the doorway as he heard it being unlocked, and he stood, when one of the inspectors appeared. He felt a little uneasy at the smile that was on the copper – he was built like a tank and looked as if he was one of those street thugs who had become a police officer, purely because then his thuggery would be legal.

He stepped forward and Anthony stepped back, which made the inspector laugh, rolling his head back and with his mouth open wide, he looked devilishly wicked. He then bounced forward gleefully, enjoying Anthony's uncertain movements to get away from him in fear, and for a moment these two continued it, as if it were a dance.

_"What do you want?" _poor Anthony finally cried out when his nerves had had quite enough.

At that demand the inspector was upon the young man and he cracked the side of his head hard with the back of his hand, Anthony crumpling to the floor, trying to blink away the white specks that exploded in front of him. He whimpered slightly as the man bent down and took hold of his coat, roughly pulling him back up.

"I am here to inform you that _Miss Barker _has been found," the inspector finally got to his point.

"Miss Barker," Anthony mumbled, "Johanna…"

"She's being interviewed right now, with that lawyer of hers, while you rot in here."

Anthony said nothing, but slowly lowered himself back to his small bed.

"But you're not rotting away in here for much longer, boy, oh _no. _You're to come out," the man said.

Anthony looked up at him confused, "Come out?" he paused, "But – but I can't have another interview – not without my lawyer. And he's with Johanna right now," he cringed as the inspector moved forward to him, expecting to be struck again, but he boldly continued anyway, "I know my rights as an Englishman! I am allowed proper representation – it – it is my _right. _You can't force me to speak –"

He ducked his head as the man's hand reached out, but instead of being hit again, he was hauled up roughly, "Nobody said you had to _talk_, lad, merely that you were to come with me."

He was thrust against the wall, his hands forced behind his back as he was handcuffed – then something unexpected happened. A coarse strip of fabric was placed on his eyes and tied at the back, and with blind panic he was roughly led out blindfolded.

"You – you can't do this – please –" Anthony implored, but he was given no reply. In fact, when he was taken out of his cell he was let go of as well. He had to blindly stumble forward, bumping into walls, only shoved in certain directions when it was deemed needed by his captor.

Before he could sense the brusque air as the door opened and realised he was walking outside, he tripped, completely sprawling on to the gravel road when he missed three steps. He groaned, and could feel blood dripping from his nose before he was heaved up again. This time a hand did guide him to where they soon stopped him and he could feel two pairs of hands lifting him up into a carriage.

He was ashamed, but he could not stop the helpless tears from falling as he was seated and the carriage sped through unknown streets of London. Fortunately he was able to make no sound, so his shame at weeping in terror was not complete.

It was not long before the carriage stopped and he was lifted yet again, down from the carriage.

"Mind your step," was the first kindly voice he heard, but a hand belonging to another pulled him with such force he nearly tripped over again, making that warning redundant.

He was pulled into a large building – he could sense that from the echoes his footsteps made on the tiled floor – but there was something so completely foreboding about this place, something so eerily silent, as quiet as the grave – multiplied with the _not knowing _his surroundings – that his weeping disgracefully did start to make a noise.

"Please – where am I?" he asked again and added feebly, "I have rights…Please…"

The only reply he was given was, "You'll find out soon enough."

And soon enough he did. He was led down three flight of stairs – thankfully this time somebody was good enough to assist him and a doorway opened. Immediately the smell of decay assaulted his senses and he involuntarily gagged. Something smelled so disgustingly like foul meat, rotting apples and sewerage combined, that his legs almost buckled from underneath him.

"Oh no you don't," he heard the words vaguely, but the smell literally made his mind feel as if it were swimming in refuse, "Not yet you don't, anyway," and he was dragged up to something. He held out his hands and touched the edge of a table, just as the blindfold was untied and fell to the floor.

He could not help the infantile _shout _that left him, as his eyes fell upon the corpse of a woman. No, no, not a woman, _the _woman he had found in the basement of Mrs. Lovett's pie emporium. The golden haired corpse in all of its deathly hideousness. The stench was rancid and overpowering, but it was nothing to how she lay. Her dead flesh was a ghostly shade of white, with bluish bruises around the closed eyes. Everything was covered in dry crimson. Her once gold hair was matted with dry blood, the raggedy clothes she wore, her skin was stained with it.

He was spewing out broken words before he realised he was speaking, and he had to consciously concentrate to determine what it was he was coughing out, _"__He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty…I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.' You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lay waste at noonday…"_ In his pure blind panic he had regressed to his days of childhood, the first thing remembered in a time of need was crying out one of the psalms he had had to memorise in school. He was sobbing the Psalm of Protection.

"Psalm 91," the inspector beside him spat, "Yes, I did my Sunday School lessons too. But pray, do tell me lad, _who _was there to protect _this poor woman? Hmm?"_

Anthony was in too much turmoil to even think to move away when the inspector lunged at him, grabbing at his coat collar, he shook Anthony violently, "Answer me you half-witted bastard! Answer me!" and then he forced Anthony down, his faces merely inches from the corpse where repulse overcame the poor boy and he almost lost control of his bowels, _"Smell her! Smell the poor nameless urchin!_ _Somebody's daughter, somebody's sister, somebody's Mother! A poor woman who wandered accidentally into your friend's impromptu slaughterhouse. The black plague _you _brought into London. You did this boy! You! As surely as the hand that slit her throat, you guided it! And the dozens of other victims – I have had to endure their daughters, their wives, their sweethearts tears! So tell me again of your rights, Anthony Hope, tell me them again in front of this woman you made certain had none of her own!"_

He was released and immediately he slumped to the floor, gasping for breath, trembling to such a capacity he did not think he could ever have control of his body again. No words could come forth from him now, just pure inborn moans of agony. At that moment he knew that if the law was not the one to provide him with a hanging for this, he would tie his own noose.


	34. Chapter 34

Oh _my, _Converse r Life, you've no idea! Your review honestly made my weekend and made me actually finish another chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm really over the moon. I try my hardest to get the historical facts right (If I'm ever wrong, everyone feel free to tell me), as I'm studying a history major so am a bit of a history geek. I really appreciate you saying that. I'm so grateful you love it - and read it all in two days? Haha. I hope you enjoy this still. And yes, I'll be sure to tell Johanna that. Wow. Thank you again.

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty-Four.**_

Unfortunately, the truth of the matter was that Dane Sanders was enjoying himself far too much. _This_ was his element, _this_ was why he lived. He had always been good at arguing and to put it to practice and to get _paid _for it – well, there was no arguing with that! Artists were called to paint, nuns were called to serve God, poets were called to form verse – and what was he called to do? Talk and talk and talk with such gusto it could wear a man's ear off. It was an art form really.

After he had demanded they be given a few minutes in the interview room alone to talk about the case, he then called the Detective back in and looked at his pocket watch momentarily, stealing the Detective's line by saying, "The interview commences at 5:30pm exactly, have yeh got yehr pen and paper for notes, Detective? Good, good," he sat down and both men stared at each other from opposite sides of the table. Sanders continued before Ormond could reply, "Let's get one thing straight, _Avery. _This was not a forced, nor was it a struggled against arrest. In fact, technically this was not an arrest at all. My client has voluntarily come as a _courtesy. _We owe none of yeh, nothing. Yeh have no scrap of evidence linking Miss Barker to the murders. I don't see yeh writing anything down, old boy, shall I oblige yeh with doing yehr job for yeh?"

The Detective stared at Sanders without saying a word, then pulled a pipe from his coat and lit it. He puffed it for a moment and sat there thoughtfully, then picked up his dip pen and as he began scrawling on his paper, he said absentmindedly as if Sanders had not spoken, "This interview commences at 5:32pm on the 21st of November, the year of 1846. Miss Barker, I am going to ask you plainly, what was your relationship to the deceased Judge Turpin?"

Johanna looked at Sanders warily and answered tentatively after he nodded that she should go on, "He was my guardian, Sir. I had been living with him as his ward since I was a little over a year old…Or maybe a little under – I – I do not know dates, exactly."

The only sound was the sound of the Detective scrawling on the paper, till he looked up and said as if confused, "But the notice in the papers announced your engagement recently. Was that some sort of mistake?"

_"Don't get impertinent, Avery," _Sanders growled.

"Well, yes," Johanna squeaked, "I was engaged to him, I…It…Slipped my mind."

"Slipped your mind? Interesting," Ormond wrote something else down, and then asked outright, "Were you involved in any conspiracy to have your betrothed murdered, Miss Barker?"

"No!" Johanna cried out.

"Did you witness the murders, Miss Barker, at the barber shop in Fleet Street?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Could you please describe what you saw?"

Johanna licked her lips nervously and said, "Erm – well, a woman. A beggar woman I think…The man – Mr. Sweeney Todd – he slashed her throat and then she fell through some sort of trap door…Then…Then Mr. Turpin appeared and they seemed to be talking about something, and then – he was sitting down you see, Mr. Sweeney Todd was going to give him a shave, but instead…Instead, he…Stabbed him, over and over again…Oh Lord, there was so much blood…Everywhere…" Johanna trembled, and covered her face with her hands, "And then he too went through that trap door – and – and Mr. Todd was going to murder me too – I was hiding in a trunk and he discovered me, and he must have thought I was a man because I was dressed as one and he was going to slit my throat too until there was some sort of scream from a woman down below and he told me never to forget his face – no, no, wait, he told me to forget his face – I just knew I never would, and then he fled and then I…And then I…Went downstairs and he was dancing with this woman and he threw her into the oven and her screams wouldn't stop and…there were so many dead bodies littered on the floor..." the poor girl could not stop trembling, and had gone deathly white, "Could I – could I please have a glass of water?"

The Detective did not reply to this question, instead he asked, "Why were you dressed as a man, Miss Barker?"

"Pardon?"

"You said you were hiding in a trunk, dressed as a man. Why were you dressed as a man?" he asked calmly.

"The girl wants a bleedin' glass o' water –" Sanders said snippily, but pulled a face as Ormond held up his hand.

There was a pause, till Johanna lowered her head shamefully, "I had run away from Mr. Turpin with Mr. Anthony Hope."

"Run away?" the Detective feigned shock, "But wasn't he your betrothed? Why ever would you run away?"

Her brow darkened for one moment as she spat, "He'd put me in a lunat –" but she was cut off as Sanders shook his head ever so slightly so only she would notice, nudging her foot under the table with his own. Anthony was already in enough trouble – Judge Turpin had wanted the asylum rendezvous to be all hush hush of course, so there was no record of her being there. If she said anything, questions would be asked how she was broken out and Mr. Fogg's unfortunate bloody death by the poor inmates there was better left a mystery.

Instead Sanders said roughly, "Do yeh usually take delight in hearing petty details about people's personal lives, Ormond?"

"Only when I feel it relevant to my case," Ormond said and after a moment pushed over a piece of paper, "Tell me, Miss Barker, does this letter mean anything to you?"

Both Sanders and Johanna looked at it. It had been the letter Sanders had found in the pile of evidence earlier that day.

_The Honourable Judge Turpin,_

_I write this urgent note to warn you that the young sailor has abducted your ward Johanna. _

_Hoping to earn your favour I have persuaded the boy to bring her here tonight to my shop._

_Hurry after nightfall and she will be waiting. _

_Yours to serve,_

_Sweeney Todd of Fleet Street._

Her brow creased in utter bewilderment, "I have no idea what this is about, Sir!"

Ormond pulled the letter back to him and leaned back as if thoughtfully, before he said blatantly, "Answer me honestly girl, did you have anything to do with the murders? Or anything to do with conspiring them?"

Sanders swore, "What the _devil _are yeh playing at –"

"I believe I asked Miss Barker the question, Sanders –"

Johanna interrupted before Sanders had time to, "No! No! A thousand times no! Of course not!"

Sanders then interjected, "What _evidence _do yeh have to say such a slanderous thing?"

"Evidence?" Ormond was still calm, "Well, I had thought it rather obvious. But I'll ask another question to make it _clearer _for you – did you implicate Mr. Todd in this plot to escape? Don't you think this letter could be seen as a bit of an indication, Miss Barker? That Mr. Hope and Mr. Todd were in league to manipulate your guardian into coming that night?"

_"It seems," _Sanders hissed, _"Rather straightforward that that letter was a blatant duplicity of Todd to Mr. Hope, to betray him and take advantage of his trust in bringing Johanna to him for his own agenda. The only crime Mr. Hope involved himself in was taking a miserable girl of her own free will away from somewhere and the last I checked – do correct me if I'm wrong, that wasn't a felony that could be judged in a mortal court. All yeh have is bleeding speculation! Is that how yeh bastards try people here is it? Maybe that's something I need to bring up to Scotland Yard. But as it is, it is nothing concrete yeh can even begin to charge Jo with!" _he stood up to leave, _"Now we're going!"_

"Dear, dear," was all Ormond could say, "Sanders, I do believe you're losing your touch. You've never taken a case so personally before – be careful, or that could be your undoing."

"Don't be smart with me," Sanders retorted, taking Johanna's arm, "Come Jo, they cannot keep yeh here any longer."

But Ormond had caught Johanna's eye, and she remained seated, as a chastened pupil would to a schoolmaster. She would not move. Could not.

"Why did you run, Miss Barker, after you were a witness to the murders? Why did you not stay to talk to the police if you were innocent of everything?"

Johanna answered so softly, "You must understand, Sir, I had never been so frightened in my life."

"I do understand that child. But what I don't understand is why you felt the need to run. Why did you have to be arrested to be brought in –" he waved away Sander's arguments dismissively, "If you can tell me the truth love, I can help you."

Johanna said nothing to this, she only sat there as Sanders seethed, "Look at her! Bleedin' Hell, she's a slip of a girl. And did yeh _see _the woman who was responsible for her? _Apologies, _I meant the Sailor. She didn't stand much of a chance did she? They were two frightened children who had just seen such bloody evil that _no man _should have to endure. Do I need to get out the medical text books to define _shock, _Ormond?" he paused, sighed and continued calmly, "I want this solved, Ormond, just like yeh. I can believe Miss Johanna here can provide information about that night, in fact, that's even why we came. We want to help with this investigation, and we have information that is vital to this. But I will not allow my client to put her neck on the chopping block. Yeh have nothing concrete and yeh know this. So admit it and give her – and the boy – some guarantee of yehr protection, and then we will talk. But as to now, no we will not. Not when there are baseless threats and insinuations built on nothing but wild fictional cheap speculation, assumptions and badly thought-out guesswork."

There was a very long silence, till Ormond said lightly, "Miss Barker, how do you feel about your betrothed being dead?"

Sanders grabbed Johanna's hand and she complied as he helped her up, "This interview is over."

"That it is," Ormond said, "This interview is terminated at 5:45pm," he then called out for a guard, "Please take Miss Barker to her cell."

Sanders would not let go of Johanna, "Are yeh bleedin' serious? Yeh have no basis to keep her here overnight! None!"

Johanna looked wildly from her lawyer to the Detective and their arguments didn't make sense to her as she gripped on to Sander's hand for dear life, _"No! Oh God no! Don't let them lock me up! Dane!"_

Ormond looked at her curiously as the once nervous and quiet girl seemed to lose utter control and any sort of self discipline as she begged from terror. But it was also interesting to look at Sanders too – the usual arrogant and self-righteous fiend looked almost broken as he stared at the girl. He had _never _seen the man take a case so personally before. Sanders turned to Ormond with unconcealed pleading on his face, "Avery – yeh have no right to – no basis – she's only a girl –"

"No basis?" he replied calmly, "She is one of the most wanted people in London as we speak. We have every basis. Don't worry Sanders, you'll have your time in court tomorrow to see if _yehr Jo _can be released on bail. I'm sure your _silvery _tongue could convince a judge. But it will never convince me. Good day to you."

What a dramatic end to the day, he thought, as he watched Sanders bolt out of the interview room door, trying to comfort a young woman who seemed to have completely lost her mind at the thought of spending a night in a cell.


	35. Chapter 35

Firstly, apologies for the last chapter. You can blame the past week I've had. In about five days I've watched every single episode of season two - _seven _discs during my one week break off uni - of Boston Legal, so I've gone a bit loopy with the whole legal thing. Best. Show. Ever. Besides Doctor Who, of course. And Scrubs...And the Office...And - okay, fine, there are quite a few good shows.

Ravencaller, something you said a few chapters back which I must have forgotten to comment on. About Heathcliff being evil. OH, HELL YES. Wuthering Heights happens to be one of my absolute favourite and dearly loved novels. I can't even begin to describe how much I love it. I still can't fathom how much I can't get how much I _loathed _two characters so much yet their story just kept me hooked till the very last page. Brilliance I tell you. And yes, Heathcliff is very evil. And Cathy's a manipulative so-and-so. And in every, _every _adaption they ever make, they can't quite get this right. They have to sugar coat everything, make them sympathetic, likeable, and I think while doing that it loses a bit of its stories depth. It isn't just a story about a romance, but I think it's about how obsession and possession can ultimately be so self-destructive. But ANYWAY, I am getting to a point. If you want to know who I picture as Sanders, just go on to Youtube and type in: wuthering heights i cannot live without my life. You've no idea how much I have searched and searched on there to find a clip of Tom Hardy looking the way I picture Sanders, without giving away spoilers of Wuthering Heights. I'm afraid this clip has spoilers, but, that's exactly how I picture Sanders. Even though I think that version fails on a lot of levels, I think it's the best adaption of WH so far. Anyway, so yeah, that's Sanders.

If you like this, could you please review, people? Because I'm a bit uncertain just exactly where I'm going with this. I mean, I know what ultimately is going to happen and the basic plot, but am I killing this story with all this legal crap? The story was originally going to just be about Anthony/Johanna but then it just grew way too big for me. I can't really picture any sequel of Sweeney without some sort of legal repercussions. Sorry, I just can't - the murder of a judge is just far too big of an event in London, not to mention mass murder. BUT if you like, I can have all this legal crap go to the background and I can focus on Anthony/Johanna's budding romance as the centre of the story.

What do you people think?

I'm happy either way. I'm going through a Boston Legal obsession so if it's a rivetting court drama that affects the whole nation you want, with Anthony/Johanna thrown in and their budding romance, then I'm all for it. But if you want just everything to be about the romance with the legal exciting drama stuff happening in the background, I'm happy for that too. But I'd really like some input. What do you guys want to read about? I found the previous chapter exciting to write, but I don't want to bore you all to death and lose you.

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_**Chapter Thirty-Five.**_

It was not quite the same as the asylum, but every so often Johanna still felt a tremor of a sob reminding her of the spectacle she had made of herself while being hauled into the cell in her bout of irrationality. She really could not explain it. It wasn't fear that had made her thrust all dignity aside; it was far deeper than that…Being locked away was her version of the deepest pit of Hell, especially one so enclosed as this. All that was there was a small bed, a pail to…_Well, _she could hold on if need be – she could never do _that _in a pail! -and a rickety chair. She chose to sit curled up on the bed instead of the chair, pulling the meagre blanket around her shoulders. Tears burned her eyelashes at the memory of the other newly arrested inmates in their own overnight cells, laughing at the "Silver Spoon" who couldn't manage the thought of spending a night in a cell. Their mirth had silenced her tears to noiseless hysteria. She could barely even function as she pounded on the locked door, screaming for Dane. It had been no use of course, and she had slumped to the ground, not caring about the dirt and grime and foul smell as she shook terribly.

The guard who had taken her in, while fending off Dane, had been young and compassionate, trying to calm her. He had touched her shoulder gently after she had given up fighting him physically, and he had murmured, "It's a'right, Miss…Yehr lawyer – he'll get yeh out t'morrow, I promise…I'll bet they're only keepin' yeh here out o' spite because ev'ryone here hates that mongrel. Look, there ain't no need to cry – I'm on this watch tonight, I am, I'll make sure yeh're safe and snug…Nobody'll harm yeh."

She had stared up at him with such sorrowful pleading, _"Please…Please don't lock that door. I won't go anywhere, I promise, but don't lock it. You don't understand, I'll go mad," _that he fidgeted uncomfortably, mumbled apologies and backed away locking the door soundly. He shuffled off guiltily as she threw herself at the door, pounding on it hard.

So now she sat on the bed with only her thoughts to keep her company, and the odd sob, as she shivered from the cold. The least troubling thoughts she could think of, were of Dane, and they were troubling enough…But it was a choice between thinking of her liberator facing the possibility of the gallows or the bloody murders she had been a witness to; therefore there wasn't much competition in what to contemplate when her mind refused to rest. Dane looking at her in a way she found disturbing…It…It was _Dane…_The very same man who had tried to cheer her up as a small girl. The thought of him wanting to _marry _her. It was all wrong! Did he really love her? Did he really want her to love him back? How could he expect that of her? He had no right!

And at thirty three – he was so _old!_

She looked up as the door unlocked and opened, and the guard stood there looking at her shyly. Bile rose up to her throat involuntarily. She recognised _that _look. She was tired of their damned infatuation with her, all of them!

"Beggin' yehr pardon, Miss," he almost stammered, "Is there an'thing I can do for yeh? I cannae free you o' course but…" his voice trailed.

It surprised her that the request that spilled from her mouth straightaway was not for more blankets or to beg to be taken to a more _dignified _place to relieve herself or for some decent food, but instead it was, "Where is Mr. Anthony Hope?"

"The sailor? Oh, he's in a cell too," the guard answered.

"Can I please…Can you tell him I said hello? Please…" she looked at him so pityingly, that any jealousy he may have had disappeared. Poor thing…She looked so frightened.

"'O course Miss…Might do him some good too, after the nasty shock he's had."

"…Nasty shock?" Johanna blinked, "What nasty shock?"

"Oh, oh it's nothin'," the guard looked as if he regretted saying anything, then turned and left.

Johanna chewed her lip, mulling over what the young man could have possibly meant. It had only been a week or so since she had known Anthony, and she had always thought she was indifferent to him…Indeed, she _was _– but she hoped he was alright still.

She was rapping on the door before she knew it, and when the guard reappeared she begged to go see Anthony, "Just for a short while…"

The guard fidgeted, "Well, I don' know…"

"Oh, _please_…"

"Well, just for a few moments," he tilted his head thoughtfully, "It's impossible for me to think yeh could ever be involved in such evil, anyway…"

She gave him such a sweet smile as reward and he happily hummed a little as he unlocked the door and escorted her down the hall and to the left, to another tightly locked cell.

She saw his lone figure after they stepped in, his back to her, lying on the small bed unmoving.

"…Anthony?"

He shifted at the sound of her voice, but he did not move, and she stepped forward a little, "Anthony, we've only got a few minutes."

"Want to be left alone," he sniffled so inaudibly, she barely understood him. He sounded as if he were trying to talk with a mouthful of cotton.

She looked at the guard confused, who shrugged, and offered the only explanation he could think of "Expect he doesn' want yeh to see he's been crying."

"…Crying? Why would he be crying?" a rush of unexpected protectiveness swooped upon her and she moved over to the bed at once, prodding him with her fingers, "Anthony, what have those curs done to you?"

"Take her away, _please," _Anthony whimpered to the guard in the same muffled voice, but she had grabbed hold of his coat and with a grunt pulled him with such strength that he was moved upon his back.

Her hands flew to her face and before she could stop herself she swore as she saw his swollen features in the pale moonlight from the window, with dark menacing bruises and a busted lip. Anthony whimpered, _"I told you to take her away!" _and pushed her roughly away from him, hiding his face once more by covering it with his hands.

The guard moved up curiously and sucked in his breath himself at the beaten sailor, "I didn' know they'd done _that!"_

"I SAID TAKE HER AWAY, FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

The guard moved forward to take Johanna's hand, but she dodged him and flung herself at Anthony, "Don't send me away Anthony, can't I help you?"

She was relieved that he didn't press her to leave anymore, and by begging the guard to leave them for awhile and that he could check on her however many times he liked that night, she snuggled up to him on the small bed, and from her shoulders she covered them both with the same blanket.

This wasn't a fairytale. She had not suddenly fallen in love with him or anything silly like that. But there was just something about him that night – something broken and newly dark about him. It was as if he were a toy and something had chipped away from him after being flung against a wall too hard. She didn't understand what had happened to her sailor since she had last seen him only a few hours ago, but she owed him this, as she held him close, and saying nothing, let him weep hotly in to her hair.


	36. Chapter 36

Ravencaller, as always, thank thee very much. I'll respond better in the next chapter I upload, I just have barely enough time to upload this one now.

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_**Chapter Thirty-Six.**_

Crimson dawn spilled into the small cell stirring Johanna awake. She sat up awkwardly, rubbing her back gingerly after her restless sleep; then her eyes fell upon the sleeping Anthony. She could have envied his ability to sleep soundly. His body must ache from such a thrashing he had been given, not to mention whatever had made him distraught the previous day that he would not tell her about. He had been that way the night of the murders too, as she had turned about fitfully in her bed; he had slept like a bear in the winter. She examined him while she had the chance, her fingers cautiously touching his poor beaten face. His skin was pale, which of course was normal for an Englishman, but odd for him considering he had spent years travelling the globe. She would have thought that the sun in foreign skies would have given his skin a darker shade. Her fingers gently combed his light brown hair as her eyes took in his full lips and small nose. He was in his early twenties, but he had such a youthful look about him that she wondered how on earth his Mother even allowed him to sail away by himself. The smell of the ocean was on his clothes, and that had soothed her as they held each other close that night. She had never been to the seaside, and the smell of something so foreign upon him was - well, she shamefully thought, rather enticing. She would have to have Dane bring in some salve for his poor face though…

During this inspection she had not noticed till now that his breathing had lightened and she stood up at once in mortification as she accused, _"You're awake!"_

He shifted and rubbed his eyes; then sat up stiffly, blinking, "Of course I'm awake."

"Well why didn't you _say _anything?"

"You seemed to be enjoying what you were doing," his mischievous smile was only fleeting however, as he grimaced and rubbed his neck, "And your hands…Your hands are so soft."

The more he awakened, the more he seemed to remember the situation he was in – and whatever had happened yesterday that she did not know about – and he became sombre. He stood and tried to pace a little awkwardly, though hissed in pain at his sore body.

"Why did they beat you?" she asked quietly.

This inspired a short laugh from him followed by the answer, "Because people have died, and they are right, it is all my fault…" he added a little more darkly, "All my fault. And I should hang for it."

"Don't say such things," she tried to say feebly, "It would only have been your fault if you had known. And you didn't. How were you to know that a man you rescued from the seas could have done such unspeakable things? How were you to know at all? You were doing your Christian duty, and that's what makes you a _good _man."

"No. That's what makes me a _fool, _Johanna," he replied curtly.

"You think your kindness is foolishness? That your good heart is senseless?" she tried to reach out to touch him, but he spurned it.

He began to talk, and at first Johanna thought it was an answer to her question but then realised he was just talking to himself as he muttered, "My men – who have years more experience than I, my men tried to tell me – they tried to warn me! Leave him be, they said, the seas of Java are Godless," he laughed again, "If only I had known how _Godless _they actually were, to keep such a devil alive till he was found. I should have left the fiend to die, to be torn apart by sharks, to have Neptune have the ocean swallow him up into a watery grave for all I should have cared. Why should _I_ have to live with this blood on my hands while he's comforted by death? I have this _stench _of murder on me that I will never be able to get off! I have that woman's downfall to pay for! I'd had a blameless life before, and in one _half-witted _decision I have damned my soul! When death meets me, will all those murdered souls accompany me? Will they drag me down to Hell with them out of retribution for what _I _caused to happen to them?…I did this. _I did all of this_..." his voice trailed as he saw Johanna watching him from the bed, shaking slightly in fear at this sudden obscene change in her formerly calm and steadfast sweetheart. He said nothing and raked his fingers through his hair fretfully, till they dropped to his sides, "Sanders was right. I'm not the man for you."

To his surprise she stood and spat with venomous sarcasm, _"Dane Sanders! _That man who thinks he should live on Mount Olympus with all the other Gods! Because he's _always _right, isn't he?_" _and she went to the door and rapped on it, "You all want to rescue me like I'm a delicate porcelain doll – and – and that may be my fault. Lord knows I've spent my life _living _in a doll's house, so I have never been able to act otherwise, have I?"

Anthony stood there bewildered as the infatuated guard opened the door and smiled down at Johanna, "I was jest comin' to collect yeh, I was. My watch is over in half an hour. I have to get yeh back safely in yehr own cell before…" his smile faltered a little uncertainly at the obstinate look in her eyes, and she turned to Anthony.

"I'll no longer be treated like an idiot. I no longer want to _behave _like an idiot. I'm free – I mean, I will be free soon. I am tired of forever acting like the silly little girl who would need _protection _in a thunderstorm. I don't know what I'm made of yet – but surely I have to be made of stronger iron. I am not my poor Mother. I am not my pitiful Father. I'm not my upbringing. I'm not the girl locked away behind a glass window anymore. Because if I am still that girl, what the devil was the point in being freed if that is all I will ever be?" she caught Anthony's eyes with her own and said, "But I'm new with this, and I don't need a man who would continue to indulge my delicacies. I need somebody who...For heaven's sake Anthony! Do I have _Leprosy?"_

Anthony was so taken aback at this little tirade that he creased his brow in confusion, "I don't know – I don't know what you mean –"

The guard sighed, "I think she means will yeh hurry up and prove yehr affections to her!"

Anthony's eyes widened, "Oh!" and he looked from the guard to Johanna, then blinked and stuttered a little shyly, "Well...I..."

Johanna felt a mass of disappointment weigh upon her from his mere bashfulness, and her voice tremored as she said, "Perhaps Sanders was right after all."

"_Perhaps?_ –" Anthony moved over to her affronted and took her by the arms, dipping his head to hers – but as quickly as his confidence had occurred after being insulted, it wavered and he pulled back, "You'll have to forgive me…I'm…I've never really kissed a girl before you see, I…"

She cupped his face gently with her hands, mindful of his sensitive face and brought it down to her and nervously brought her lips to his. It was a fleeting and feather soft peck, but this caused him to smile and he brought their lips together again in a more lingering kiss. He heard her giggle softly and when he pulled back a little, she kissed him again. This time they both laughed quietly together, in this innocent act of their first real intimacy, his forehead resting on hers.

Alas, it was time to go and they said nothing but offered each other a smile as she was taken away. After the door was closed and locked securely however, Anthony leaned his head against the door as he tried to collect himself, and then said with a loud laugh that even the other inmates in their own cells must have heard, "Sanders? To the devil with Sanders!"


	37. Chapter 37

I am writing another chapter in a couple of hours. I will thank you properly then, MoonlitSerenity, when I'm not being hassled to get off the computer.

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_**Chapter Thirty-Seven.**_

_"Docket number 4675. The Commonwealth versus Johanna Barker."_

Johanna stood, with Bridget Hope and her French lover Piers supportively behind her in the audience, a lawyer she did not know who Dane said would be part of their counsel from his law firm on one side of her, and on her other side, Dane Sanders himself looking regal in his court attire. Indeed, Dane did look as if he were in his domain, standing straight and noble in his charcoal black open-fronted gown over his morning suit, the open sleeves of the robe billowing out down his figure. The white of his yoke around his neck was the same hue as the short horsehair wig he wore over his dark hair, the white curls coiled at the sides and back, tied with an ebony ribbon of satin. Even the eyepatch he wore, she noted, was of a finer material than the one he wore made of cloth in his day-to-day business, though, she had a feeling he would not appreciate her mentioning that small detail. She herself wore a dark gown borrowed from Miss Hope, with her golden hair pinned up neatly and modestly. She tried to ensure her looking around in awe at the court was done in a subtle fashion, for she had never sat through proceedings before and was intrigued, but did not want to shame Dane…He seemed to take such pride in his occupation. Even his voice seemed more polished, not completely losing his rough accent, but refining it somewhat. The amount of people there to see this was incredible! Her heart began to race as the enormity of the situation overcame her. She knew from the little knowledge she had about court sessions that bail hearings were not supposed to be big ordeals. But the amount of journalists, curious lawyers, even judges she recognised from dining at the Turpin household sometimes, sitting in the audience, they even spilled out of the courtroom.

_"On the charge of conspiracy for murder, how do you plead?" _the Honourable Judge Keats looked down upon them all from behind his raised bench of oak, his eyes directly on Johanna herself. She tried not to squirm as she recognised him vaguely. He had come to call on Mr. Turpin a few times…

"Not guilty, Yehr Honour," Dane replied confidently.

At least somebody was confident. He had said before the proceedings that Keats was an old goat, but a fair one.

_"Bail?"_

"The defense requests Miss Barker Released On Recognizance. I myself will take responsibility for her custody," Dane replied.

The prosecution on the other side of them said heartily, "The defendant is charged with conspiring to murder her guardian, the esteemed Judge Turpin, her own guardian and fiance! It is suspected that Miss Barker schemed with a murderer."

Dane laughed a little, "And what else will yeh accuse my client of, Farquhar? Plotting to steal the crown jewels too?" he turned back to Judge Keats, "Yehr Honour, it is clear my client has had a frightening ordeal. She has co-operated with the police, putting her own emotional fright aside, even though all they have to accuse her of is from speculation. By rights it is absurd that she is even standing here, the whole ordeal is a sham and only playing out because they want to point fingers at everybody to try and prove to the papers they're doing _something._ Miss Barker has had no previous records, and in one night I have been able to receive many letters of favourable references from her governess and servants of the Turpin household," he held out a wad of letters, "She is a good girl caught up in this evil mess. This is _England_, is it not? We do not try people here as if they are guilty without concrete evidence. This isn't _France _– have we resorted back to the Sun King's faux trials where we'll just arrest at random? Why, let's sign the _lettre de cachet _right now, shall we?"

The prosecution sneered, "I am sure we can all agree that pre-revolutionary France has nothing to do with this case at hand and that this has everything to do with justice. A prominent judge is dead Your Honour, as well as a slew of other murders, forgive me for taking it seriously and wanting to keep our streets safe."

_"Safe?" _Dane snickered, "Oh, indeed! Because Miss Barker fits the profile of a mass murderer –"

Judge Keats banged his gavel, _"Gentlemen! _If you would be kind enough to leave your rivalry out of the courtroom, it would be most appreciated. I think we are all aware of your past," Johanna looked curiously at Dane and the prosecution glowering at each other, as the Judge continued with a sigh, "Only an imbecile would think Miss Barker was any sort of physical threat to the community. The defendant has no prior record and there is evidence of her good character. A thorough investigation will be made into the murders and Miss Barker will assist in the proceedings of course, but I am also aware that if proper precautions are not carried out, this could turn into a witch hunt. You are correct Mr. Farquhar, that this is not pre-revolutionary France, but we must ensure it never becomes that either. Tread carefully with your investigations. We do not make it a habit to incarcerate every single witness in every single crime, otherwise, I am sure more than half of London would be spilling out of our prisons. This case, no matter how important, will not change that. I will release her into your custody Mr. Sanders. I assume you will organise the proper chaperone," and with that he banged his gavel again, and the proceedings were over.

Johanna let out a sigh as Dane squeezed her hand encouragingly, and Bridget rushed up from the audience while the room began to clear, and embraced her, "I am so pleased!" then they looked at each other, and Bridget could not hide her troubled eyes. There was nothing that Johanna could say – now it was Anthony's turn. He was everybody's real concern.


	38. Chapter 38

MoonlitSerenity, thank you so, so, so much for your kind words. You'll probably think, meh, whatever, but seriously. You really made me click that what the hell am I worried about? I should be writing for myself! I mean, I want it to be a good story of course, but at the end of the day, if I keep worrying all the time purely about what people would _like, _then I'll never write a good story. Your review came at about the right time because I was seriously going to alter it. Thank you heaps. Really, thank you. And now I've probably weirded you out. BUT ARGH, A BOSTON LEGAL FAN! I bought another season today...God help us all. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And Ravencaller, what I meant to say last night - yeah, Hindley treating Heathcliff like crap wouldn't have helped, like you said...Really pity Hindley though...Ehhh, everybody in that story is so deliciously screwed up and dysfunctional. Ahhhh, I'm glad you think he's Heathcliff too! It's funny because I started writing him a few weeks before I saw the BBC version, and then saw it, and it just *clicked*. Ahh. Thanks for the trivia on asylums - you've given me future ideas of flashbacks...Hmmm...And write the idea you've got! Thank you as always for your input.

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_**Chapter Thirty-Eight.**_

Bridget Hope had not been able to stop shaking when she saw what they had done to her brother. She had arrived with that Sanders lawyer and a colleague of his who would assist with their cases, with a dress for Johanna from her own wardrobe, and a new suit she had bought especially for her brother. Sanders had had Johanna brought into the visitors room first, and they had all known immediately something was wrong.

Johanna had said quietly, avoiding Bridget's gaze, "I think you should go to Anthony first."

Sanders had raised a brow, "Why? Yehr bail hearing is first. Yeh were the great Judge Turpin's ward, yeh get precedence."

"Dane, please, you must go to him," she pleaded.

Sanders sighed and closed a file, "Fine, I'll be back in a moment," he stood and gestured for Bridget to follow.

If truth be told Bridget was not expecting what she saw. She thought he might have received some bad news, but to see the evidence of an assault on her kind brother made her fly to him the moment the cell door was unlocked and clasp him to her tightly, before realising that such an embrace would cause him pain.

"Why did they do this to you?" she demanded, but he said nothing as he slid down on a chair with a shrug.

He then murmured, "I suppose it's to be expected," and she turned on Sanders who seemed to be staring at him in thoughtful silence.

_"Well aren't you going to say anything?" _Bridget exploded at him, _"Aren't you going to storm out of here and demand why they harmed him? Use your flaming temper to intimidate them?"_

Sanders tapped his chin with his finger, then looked at her surprised, "This is good, Miss Hope. Now, don't give me that bleedin' look. We can use this today and see if leniency can be made. Appearance is everythin' – now, if I had first been _told _the pup had been beaten, rather than _seeing _it, I'd be livid. Yeh take a bruised and battered man into court and he looks as if he's just a drunk tavern lout and he'll be thrown into prison as quick as yeh can say lickitie hickitie – but he looks so hopeless don' he? So pathetically delicate. So wretchedly pitiable, so –"

_"Yes, _Sanders, I think we get the point," Anthony grumbled and Sanders grinned.

"My point is; we can use the sympathy card. Say yeh haven't even been properly put on trial and look what's happened to yeh," then he said carefully, "What _exactly _did they do to yeh lad? I need names and what happened for my records."

Anthony looked at Bridget fleetingly, then back to Sanders, "I don't – I don't exactly want to say –"

Sanders looked at Bridget and without the delicate sensitivity that Anthony had been aiming for, he said "Leave woman. He wants to talk," bluntly.

"I _beg _your _pardon _–" she began.

But he interjected sharply, "The longer yeh take offense at yehr brother wanting his right to privacy is longer yeh take off me being able to help him. Now, yeh can either act like a bleedin' female, or yeh can use some sense that _one _of yeh _has _to have been born with, and leave us. Yehr decision, Miss Hope."

The words from the fiend didn't hurt her of course, but turning back to her twin and seeing him avoiding her gaze stung...It suddenly dawned on her that they had been separated for _years. _How much must he have changed? He had always told her _everything._

She said nothing but left the room with a swish of her skirts and walked back to the visitor's room where the only telltale sign of her shock was her hand trembling as she tried to light her ivory clay pipe with Indian weed.

She calmed quicker than she thought, indeed, after Johanna's success, it seemed that really was the only blemish to the day. Sanders was indeed good at what he did and she was already excited about being able to send word back home that Anthony had been released on bail. That would indeed make her Mother happy, the poor woman, having to worry for her son's life as well as her dying husband's...

Whatever injury had been caused between the siblings early that morning seemed to disappear later that afternoon, as she had given Anthony the suit he was to wear to court. It seemed this brought them back to a happier time as he turned about, gazing at himself in the foot-length mirror Sanders carted in.

"Bleedin' hell, I swear he should have been born a woman," Sanders growled.

"Yet," Anthony had said without skipping a beat, "It was you who had a full-length mirror in his possession."

She had purchased a dark brown frock coat for him with shiny silver buttons, and a smoky grey waistcoat. His face had nearly twitched as she had brought out the knee-length leather boots for him with matching silver buckles, and he could not stop circling around, looking at himself in the reflection.

"Don't expect a Christmas present," Bridget said jovially then held out a forest green cravat and silver pin to Johanna who had been watching the proceedings in shy amusement, "Perhaps you would like to tie this for him? He's always been so hopeless, you see."

Johanna obliged and took the cravat, "I have a hard time believing _that_," she said mischievously, "He seems more of a fashion plate than I."

She moved over to him and smiled bashfully and wrapped the cloth around his neck, tying it awkwardly, "Forgive me," she stuttered, "I'm not really good at this."

"Nonsense," he said with a half smile and with his hands he guided hers, crossing the long end of the fabric over the short end, then bringing the short end over the long end, and continuing the process till it was neatly finished. He then clasped his hands over hers for a moment longer as they shared a gaze, till Sanders cleared his throat and the moment was ruined.

In a few more moments his hair was pulled back with a grey ribbon and besides his bruised face he looked the gentleman, though Johanna murmured, "Since Bridget won't be getting you a Christmas present, I suppose I should buy you a nice pair of leather gloves."

Anthony then turned to Sanders who looked at Bridget and said outright, "Yeh're not to come to Anthony's hearing."

Bridget could not help but laugh as she was told this, "…Is this a jest?"

"No, it is not," Sanders said, "Yehr brother does not want either yeh or Jo there, it's as simple as that."

Bridget looked at Sanders, "He is my _brother-"_

"I'm sorry Bridget, I'm sorry," Anthony fidgeted nervously, "But you must understand…"

_"What? What must I understand?"_

Anthony said nothing for a moment, then blurted out, "I will have you barred from entering if you refuse to comply, do you understand? I cannot – I won't – I refuse to have you watch me dragged away in chains to prison if this doesn't go the way it should, because God help me, I don't know if I can keep my dignity intact!"

She reached for him, her hands taking him gently, "You silly boy – you won't be thrown in prison – Sanders is brilliant, you should have seen him this morning. It was over so quickly, he just had to open his mouth and everything went his way. They have no real case to hold you anyway –"

Anthony said stubbornly though, "Be that as it may, I don't want you there."

Bridget looked over to Johanna helplessly to try and gain some support, but she was looking at Anthony thoughtfully, then, "I will respect your wishes, Anthony."

"You're all insane! This isn't how family works! Anthony, you cannot pick and choose the extent to which I can support you – you're my twin and if I was in your position, you would refuse to meet this ridiculous term!"

"I know," he said simply, "But I'm a hypocrite…Forgive me Bridget, but I have made up my mind and that's all there is to it. Sanders knows the proper procedures, if you refuse to comply, then he can easily have you locked out."

Hot tears grazed Bridget's cheeks painfully, and she tried to push back the agonising lump in her throat.

Sanders sighed and tried to say soothingly, "Lass – I know what yeh must be feeling –"

She pointed at him and said with a snarl, _"Don't _start that patronising rubbish with _me. _You can craft words all you like to the court, but _not with me. _How _can _you understand? You've never really known what it is to love someone till it hurts, have you? You have no children, no wedding ring, nobody to love _you. _You read in stories about what a crime it is for someone never to be loved, but I tell you this, it is an even greater crime to have never _loved. _It makes your heart hard and cold and cruel, so that you would ever think _this _request from a terrified boy who doesn't know any better in his state, could ever be normal. To spurn his sister – to hell with you Dane Sanders!" and she turned and bolted from the room.

* * *

It was late afternoon when she was found. Smoking again out of her clay pipe on the steps of a nearby building. It had taken longer than what had been originally thought, and Sanders sat beside her wearily, his hair hanging loose around his face, but still wearing his court robes. He said nothing as she sat and smoked, then left a trail of ghostly lace make a ring of smoke in the air, till she said, her voice strained, "You don't need to tell me it's bad news. I know."

He chewed his lip pensively before saying, "I am a right bastard, yeh know," he paused for a long moment, "I should have seen it coming…They sent him to Queen's Prison…Oh Christ, I should have seen it coming. I had thought he didn't want yeh there because of normal fear, because of the small risk…He purposely sabotaged himself, Bridget Hope…What have I let happen?"


	39. Chapter 39

Just a short chappity chap this time.

* * *

_**Chapter Thirty-Nine.**_

"What are we going to do?"

It was 3am and Dane Sanders looked up from the mass of papers on his desk in his study at the lone figure of Johanna Barker by the doorway. She looked so small in the mass of ivory lace that was her nightgown, with her gold hair hanging loose down her shoulders and back. It had been a long day, and he was dead tired, but the Fleet Street murders were not his only affair and he had to plough on as long as he could during the night, ensuring his other work responsibilities did not falter.

"Yeh should be asleep Jo," he looked back down at his desk and shuffled a few pieces of paper. He could not deny that all the words had seemed to blur together and so it was rather pointless to continue his endeavours for the night.

"I cannot sleep when I am worried. And I am worried about Anthony," she then lowered her voice, "And poor Bridget hasn't stopped crying."

Sanders sighed and leaned back in his chair. Johanna had taken up residence in the guest room while she was under his custody, and Anthony's sister had moved in as well, as her chaperone, till he could hire a widow in need of money or some old spinster biddy. He had never realised how much his apartment reeked of bachelorhood until now that he had Jo living with him. He had felt self-conscious over the _silliest _of things. After he had led her to the guest-room he could not stop himself from blathering about _getting prettier curtains _and stomping on the carpet and musing that it _really wasn't soft enough, was it? That could be altered. _All the colours were browns and blacks, everything smelled of leather, cologne and Latakia tobacco – and shamefully everything was an utter mess. It was just as well his ailing Mother rarely came downstairs from her en suite, for she would be appalled. He really needed a maid…Or a wife.

He gestured for her to come in and sit down, and she tentatively did so after he stood and moved a stack of books from a chair for her.

"What are we going to do?" she repeated her question, her eyes looking at him so trustingly, as if he could do anything. She wasn't the only one to give him that look; he was given it every day. Husbands facing bankruptcy, wives being unfairly divorced, children squandered out of their rightful inheritance from loopholes in wills seized upon by vulture like relatives, orphans cheated of their apprenticeships from greedy employers...The list was endless.

The burden of being exceptionally gifted was that it was unforgiveable to fail.

"What are we going to do?" he mulled this question aloud till he was certain his voice was light enough to convince her that everything was fine, then he shrugged, "What we were planning to do o' course. We're going to win. Nothing's changed, Jo. Only the location for the sailor. He just lost his bail hearing, that's all. He hasn't been convicted of anything yet."

He did not tell her of course what Anthony Hope had said after he had been chained and dragged away after losing his hearing, because he had made such a right real _spectacle _of himself during the session, _"I deserve the gallows! I'm responsible for the murders!" _and he did not tell her how his heart had literally gone out to the wretched fool. He could pity all he wanted, but there was never room for emotion in his cases. Even so, he wished the boy had some strong male in his life. He had spent all his life being mollycoddled by _women_.

His eyes fell upon Johanna. To think, he had once thought she would be his main concern – never the boy. Then his eyes rested on a mysterious letter that was sent to his apartment under her name the previous day. He had spent hours pondering whether he should give it to her or not. Of course _anybody _who was _anybody _knew Miss Johanna Barker was residing with him with her chaperone, but he did not know that she knew anybody well enough who would write to her. It might surprise people if they were to ever discover something about him - he knew this - at the standard of ethics he actually maintained. A sealed letter from an unknown person bothered him. He would like nothing more than to tear it open and read the contents himself. Like hell he would want her bothered by some sanctimonious crone belittling her for whatever she was being accused of which would only upset her, but she had spent her whole life being spied on…It was not right to pry.

He picked it up thoughtfully and murmured, "Have yeh ever received a letter of yehr own, Jo?"

"Pardon?" she asked confused, and then stared at the envelope he held.

"Is that for me?" she asked, standing up.

"Evidently so, it has yehr name on it."

"Well…Well who would be writing to me?" she looked almost troubled at this news, and paced the carpet for a moment, "You open it – you read it," she paced some more, then lunged forward and snatched it from him, _"No _– I've changed my mind…I'll read it."

He handed her a silver letter opener and she slit the top open to take out a short note. Her eyes scanned it for a moment, then she looked at him bewildered, "It's from – well, it claims it's from my great-grandmother."


	40. Chapter 40

Thank yoooooooooooooou as per usual Ravencaller. Haha, don't give me the idea of Anthony really being a vampire...OOH, and I'm SO glad you find the Sanders/Anthony arguments amusing, because that's what they're meant to be and I honestly wonder if anybody reads them that way. Scary thing is, I don't even try. They just come out that way. Oh, and I know smoking is a filthy habit and it's bad and deplorable and all, and in real life I don't like it, but there is just SOMETHING about Victorian men smoking that just makes me swoon. Completely random...LOL...Thank you, thank you very much.

Thank you for your comments NoelleLaBelle. And I'd say you're right about it being called hashish. I spent so long researching what women even smoked in Victorian times and it said they smoked pipes oddly enough, so then I had to find out what women would smoke in pipes and it came up with that, but it probably was called hashish. I just realised the lengths I go to at least try to get things historically accurate...I'm so lame. It's just fanfiction.

This totally isn't the best chapter, but I just had to write it because I've just discovered there's a lot of hatred in the Sweeney community for Lucy Barker! Now, I could totally go on a tirade defending her and all, but I can't be assed writing it and I'm sure none of you could be assed reading it. I was just very saddened by that.

* * *

_**Chapter Forty.**_

It was always clear that little Lucy had been a special sort of girl, Margaret Armstrong thought in recollection. After generations of the sturdy dark haired and smoky grey eyed offspring making up the Armstrong tribe, it was refreshing to have the yellow-haired child enter their world. The Armstrong family were known to be a cold clan – of course that's how they had to be. Only the ruthless and detached survived and maintained their sort of status, but Lucy had thawed their hearts out, just a little. It was as if nobody was quite certain just how they managed to produce such a child. She was all laughter and warmth, and a good girl. Above all else she had always been a good girl.

Margaret looked down at the envelope she had just addressed to _Miss Johanna Barker _and she closed her eyes for a moment, her frail hands trembling a little. She was all that was left of Lucy now. All her life she had feared her husband, feared her sons, feared the constraints she was tied to and had watched Lucy thrown out on to the street. Now Margaret herself was dying – and now that she was faced with her own mortality, all that needless fear had gone. Her hand moved to her mouth and she tried to hush her laughter, but like the mad old crone they all thought she was now, she could not help herself, and she laughed and laughed at the absurd irony that facing imminent death had made her lose all fear.

_"Grandmama!"_

Her eyes snapped open violently, her heart beating far too fast and her mirth was destroyed as quickly as it had erupted. She rocked backwards and forwards slowly as she sat at her desk, her palm pressed to her forehead as she had remembered sixteen years ago, waking from a dreamless sleep. She had recognised her granddaughter's voice at once down the stairs – but not that frightening hysteria. Even when Lucy had left to become Benjamin's bride she had left calmly. Clarence had told her to go back to sleep and he would take care of it, but for once she had pushed past him, running out of the bedroom to the top of the staircase looking down in horror.

It was only the yellow hair she had recognised, or the hint of it. Chunks had been torn out, leaving hideous patches of baldness. It was matted and tangled, and the beautiful colour was now muted to a dull ashen shadow of what it had once been. Margaret had raced down to her poor girl as quickly as she could, not caring that she nearly tripped over her own feet to get to her. She had not run so fast even in her youth, and she didn't quite know how her body of nearly sixty years had managed such a feat, but she was down upon her knees, pulling the figure into her arms. The dress poor Lucy wore was ripped and one could plainly see her petticoats, but none of that mattered – the only thing that now concerned Margaret was the unnatural howl that came from her darling Lucy.

_"He lied to me! He lied, and they all laughed at me!"_

Clarence had followed of course, but had backed away a few steps uncertainly at this aberrant creature which disturbed his foyer.

"Lucy," she had tried to keep her voice calm, "Lucy darling, where is Benjamin? What do you mean he lied to you?"

This unfortunately inspired another shriek and the girl ripped herself away from Margaret's embrace, pummelling her own head with her fists, over and over and over again.

Tears were streaming down Margaret's old and weary cheeks and they intensified as her husband swore, "She's gone insane!"

_"Benjamin's gone!" _Lucy crawled over on her belly to her grandfather, her hands clutching at his feet, "Help me! Help my daughter! Help me! I beg you!"

Margaret could never imagine the callous way in which her husband had kicked Lucy away from him with such disgust. He had kicked her away like one would do to a diseased dog, and the girl's body had crumpled like a tattered rag doll, and she had remained on the carpet, unmoving but whimpering still.

Shame filled her now at the absolute powerlessness she had felt which had rendered her so feeble minded that she had allowed Clarence to have the servants once again cast her granddaughter out into the street. She had cried of course, had begged, had threatened – but what she would _give_ to replace that little moment of time, where instead of standing aside she had joined Lucy on the street, discarded from the damned Armstrongs alongside with her. Because she never saw Lucy again. Yet she had had to see her husband every day after that, and what she would give to trade such an abomination! The man who could kick such a wretched woman he had once swung on to his shoulders so lovingly to catch a glimpse of King George the Third passing in his silver carriage…

_Help me…Help my daughter…_

She nearly ruined the envelope in her hand right then as she squeezed it tightly. Sixteen years too late! But it would have to do.


	41. Chapter 41

Thanks as always Ravencaller! And yeah, completely agree about the insanity...

Am thinking of changing the name of the story to be honest, as Paper Flowers doesn't really fit anymore...The scene I had in mind for that has been cut, unfortunately. I'll keep yeh all posted.

The nursery rhyme I Googled, it's not mine.

* * *

_**Chapter Forty-One.**_

Sleep had eluded Bridget during the night, but that was to be expected. She had tossed and turned as images of her poor brother locked up in a cell with god knows what sort of people around him, taunted her. She was not an idiot, she knew her brother's figure was meagre and could snap as easily as a twig – his safety was indeed a serious concern. He always had such mental strength though that had always set him apart from others around his age growing up. While most others had courted their childhood dreams but let them wane and wither to the realms of mundane reality, he had soldiered on, planning his whole life at such a young age. He had always had the ambition to sail every part of the world, thus he had lived his life as if that was going to be certain. Seeing him in London now had been the first time in all of her life that she had remembered seeing such doubt in his eyes. A part of him was ruined…

The weight of all of this left her absentminded that morning. She was not allowed to visit her brother till he had "settled in" or some such nonsense. The damned lawyer had said that so pitifully and was treating her like a wounded animal, though perhaps that's what she looked like, because she certainly felt it.

She missed Piers. She missed his warm arms, those dark eyes that looked at her and knew too much. It had been odd lying in a bed by herself – after discovering her relationship with Piers was not the most chaste, she could imagine her Mother thinking all sorts of sordid things about her, but if truth be told it wasn't anything base she missed from her lover. It was simply sharing a bed. It was the way his hair pulled back caught loose from its fastening and became tangled while he remained oblivious in his slumber. It was the odd mumbled word in French in his sleep. It was waking to find him standing in the doorway and her climbing out of bed and quietly leading him back while he was still dreaming. It was having her sleep interrupted by his hands straightening her négligée and muttering apologies because "it looked uncomfortable." It was his hot breath on her neck as they held each other under the covers. It was arguing over whether it was too hot or too cold to have a duvet over the sheets. It was the intimate, personal and private contact.

She excused herself after breakfast and made her way down the streets of London to the inn where he was still staying. He would most probably be painting and she would look at all the covers on the floor and sigh and say the owner would have his hide. He would chuckle and then ignore his art long enough to make love to her on the floor coverings.

But when she entered he was sitting by the window, sipping at a cup of black coffee, wearing nought but a pair of breeches with the suspenders hanging loose. She muttered under her breath about how he would catch pneumonia, but said nothing more on it as she sat down on the edge of the bed, unpinned the hat from her hair, discarded it on to the floor and burst into tears.

Piers did not jump up and run over to her at once, instead he remained where he was, staring at her thoughtfully as she wept noisily.

_"Salaud!" _she swore at him, but did not feel much better. Somehow calling somebody a _bastard _in their native tongue was not as satisfying as saying it in your own, "What are you doing over there? Creating a narrative in your head for your next painting? The girl in green who weeps!"

He stood and walked over to her, sitting quietly beside her and she dropped into his arms, shuddering in tears. He crooned to her comfortingly, and though she had reprimanded him only moments previous she was grateful to lean against his bare chest.

She sniffled a little against him and muttered, _"Please?"_

He said nothing to this.

"Piers, please?" she tried again.

He sighed and moved away from her, then returned with her clay white pipe but she shook her head impatiently, saying nothing, which inspired an irritated exhale of breath from him,_"Ma chéri, _but you have been doing so well these past few months. _S'il te plait!_"

Perhaps her insulting him in French didn't affect her as much as she would like, but his desperate _please _made her heart pang. She was ashamed at the role she took, of the unpleasant child she turned into, but what was he to _expect? _These were hardly normal circumstances.

She said nothing, her mouth pouting and she heard him mutter something and walk away, then move over to her with a small wooden box. She smiled at him with such love, but he said nothing as he gently laid her back on the bed, his grim features expressing more than words could. She herself said nothing as he readied the syringe, and covered her face with her arm, closing her eyes. She felt him kiss her wrist softly, his lips regretfully lingering on the marks that had begun to fade which he had been so proud of, and then she felt the prick and the sting of the needle piercing her flesh into her veins. The moment seemed to buzz, and the room shifted and turned, and the only thing she could hold on to was her lover's soft humming.

_

* * *

Her mother's sharp voice, disturbing the peaceful silence, "Why can't you be more like your brother?"_

* * *

A thrill of excitement went through her as she hitched up her skirts and smiled in smug delight at the look of envy on Annie Cook's face as she saw the tall cream lace up boots as she skipped over the chalk squares to where she had thrown her stone, singing in glee, _"Halloweena Heckatee, couldn't brew a cup of tea! The only potion she could brew, was wishy, washy mousetail stew!"_

"Where did you get your boots from?" Rebecca Philbot asked enviously.

Bridget said nothing as she concentrated on twisting around on one foot and hopping all the way back, "They came all the way from London for my birthday! Where did your shoes come from again Annie?"

Annie Cook lifted her chin with a dirty look, "Least I don't have to share my birthday!"

Bridget smiled at this pathetic retort. New boots for her and a globe of the world for her brother, how could one complain about that?

_

* * *

_

_…And Isaac loved Esau, because he did eat of his venison: but Rebekah loved Jacob…_Bridget's weary eyes looked upon her mother as she murmured quietly from the Bible, as she lay under the covers, the body of her brother against her in newly born slumber.

* * *

_"Why can't you be more like your brother? For God's sake Bridget, you can't just go out at all times of the night! You're not a tart!"_

_"Oh Mother!" her laughter bubbled from within, "He doesn't behave all proper for you or because he's good! He does it so men will hire him on their ships because of his good reputation! Because he wants to get the devil out of this hole! To get away from you! And to think, you believed your innocent Anthony was good because of you!"_

_

* * *

_

_Penny was sulking as Bridget was untangling the knots in the string of her kite. Anthony of course was not helping as he picked up a pebble, examined it, and skimmed it perfectly over the water of the pond._

_Penny scowled, "Why do you have to go away?"_

_"Hush, Penny," Bridget said impatiently, "I grow weary of your complaining!"_

"Well it's not fair!" Penny cried out, "Why Anthony? Why do you want to sail away?"

_Anthony looked at her as if it were the most obvious thing to ask, "Because I can't fly, can I?"_

_"Neither can I, it seems," Bridget gave up on the kite and threw it in disgust on the grass._

* * *

_It was so peaceful and beautiful. She held out her hands and felt the cool water like glass in winter, play at her fingers. The ocean was a host of colours – mauves and blues and silver…Her skirts were heavy as she waded in and began to move her arms as she swam into the endlessness…She lay on her back looking up at the warm sun, and her eyes closed._

_

* * *

_

_"Anthony!"_

_She wanted to wake up. She could not move her body, and her head felt heavy as she tried to move it, "Anthony, where are you?"_

_Her gaze fell upon the ashen corpse, hanging from the noose and she cried, trying to move about. She managed to crawl over to him and cling to his lifeless legs, pulling herself up, "Oh God, please, Anthony!"_

_His body fell upon her as if the rope snapped, and she could not scream as his body pulled her down, down, down into the black water…_

* * *

She was crying, the sobs heaving out of her body as the heaviness lifted off her and she could feel the softness of the bed underneath her. Piers looked worriedly down upon her, and pulled her into his arms as reality slowly sunk into her. She was not dreaming. Anthony was not dead…

"Don't ever let me do that again," she gasped for breath as if she had truly just been emerged from water, unaware of her lover himself shaking too.


	42. Chapter 42

_**Chapter Forty-Two.**_

Glowing candles littered the Detective's desk, illuminating the mass of paperwork on his cluttered table. It was very late at night – or was it early in the morning? – and everybody else had of course gone home or to the tavern long ago, celebrating raucously the fact that Johanna Barker had been found and Anthony Hope was now secure to interview. They could enjoy a small reprieve that they had been denied, working to the bone in almost hysteria after the savage murders had been discovered. He was the only one present now beside the guard of course who was working his shift with the prisoners. Their work was not done of course, far from it, but they were making progress. There are certain times in any nation's history, where they are watched and examined and weighed by the rest of the world to find their worth. _This _was one of those times for England. He could almost sense the beady little eyes of their neighbours, intent on finding out whether they would overcome this or self-destruct. Years from now people would look back to determine how they contended with this matter. Every small detail would be scrutinized, and he would ensure that every decision he made would be fair and justified and _right_.

He picked up a box of objects from the floor on to the table, and took out a flask of silver. It was still half full with whisky. All these objects – belonging to all those people who unknowingly passed through the secret abattoir…Every single object meaning something to somebody. A cigarette case, a cufflink, a love letter written in fine calligraphy scented with a flowery perfume, a rusty toy soldier… He was going to find as many families and loved ones of the victims as he could and somehow return these personal treasures to them. A seemingly impossible job of course, for even in the short span of time that it had been, it looked as if the man and his murderess accomplice had been very clever in the victims that had been chosen. People passing through, foreigners, nobody who would be made a fuss off in their absence. The love letter for example, had been in French. It may sound absurd, but he had been grateful for that small facet. The victim should have some sort of privacy, the intimacy between himself and his sweetheart or bride left behind, with nobody really being able to speak fluent French in the headquarters. It made it more difficult of course, the letter from what he could tell was from a Rosalind and written to a Jean – and how many of _those _were there scattered around that country? Never mind…He had stacks of records of missing people from around the continent, he would try and piece all these puzzles together.

"Yeh really need a woman, Avery, yeh know that? I knew yeh would still be here. I'm not sure whether to be pleased or disturbed...Yeh're going to die from exhaustion one o' these days."

Inwardly Ormond flinched at the surprise of another entering without his sensing it, but his figure remained composed from years of practice with concealing his feelings from suspects. He would recognise that unwanted voice anywhere, anyway...

"As it is not business hours, you have no right to be here, Sanders," Ormond said snippily, "But I would imagine you are here for some important reason, as it is far too late for it to be otherwise. Get it over with."

The lawyer obliged Ormond and came over, plonking a bottle of red wine on the desk. Ormond barely looked at it, "I don't drink."

"Ah," Sanders took out two tumblers from his coat pockets, uncorked the wine and poured it, pushing one glass towards Ormond, "That's right, forgive me."

There was a silence as Sanders sat down and took a sip from his glass, then said quietly, "Ormond, what assurance of protection can yeh give to my clients?"

"The same as I give all the others," Ormond answered straightaway, "Every person going through this process has the right –"

Sanders leaned forward, his voice barely a murmur, "Come on, old friend, yeh know this is one of the worst cases we've ever seen. They're hungry for blood…"

Ormond folded his hands neatly on his desk and thought for a moment before he stated, "Yes, I am aware of that…But I am not _them, _am I Sanders? I search for truth and justice. I am assuming you have not come just to plead for protection, so what is it?"

Sanders took a few pieces of folded paper from inside his coat, "But I have yehr assurance, don' I Avery? Because this…This is a sort of leverage. Let's not be naïve, we both know my fellow Hope needs it."

Ormond took the papers and opened them, his eyes scanning the transcripts, "I don't understand…" he looked back at Sanders, "This is an old court transcript of a Benjamin Barker. Now, I know Miss Barker was adopted, if you will, by Judge Turpin after – was it her Father who was sent to a colony? But I don't see what this has to do with anything."

Sanders chose his words carefully, "When I found the boy, I told him of Jo's past yeh see…He connected that to the story of the man who he brought into London, the one who had been murdered. All he knew were bits and pieces of this man's history. That someone had stolen his wife, someone powerful in the law. Sweeney Todd. He had no idea about anything else, any criminal history, nothing. If you check the convict records in Australia, and if it states that a Benjamin Barker escaped – surely there must be some old photographs of Benjamin Barker too – and the officers who found the barber's body now would recognise him…Barker and Todd were both barbers. Both worked in Fleet Street…" his voice trailed off.

Ormond sat there, his mouth open a little, "Well, I'll be damned…I'll need to investigate further of course, but…" there was a long pause before he said again, "Sanders, are you aware of the predicament you have placed your clients under?"

"I am aware that I am talking to the fairest detective in –"

"It isn't about being _fair, _Dane…Well – well it _is_, but – it's about _facts _too_. _If we find out, that yes, the murderer was indeed this Benjamin Barker fellow, that is _fact. _But how we found out – how you _told me _from what you've _heard. _Don't you see? Those _aren't _facts. This could incriminate the sailor, perhaps Miss Barker too. Unless there are _clear facts, _what sort of judge or jury or anybody with any sort of rationality is going to believe a _man _who's _friend _he brought into London who is the _father _of the girl he _fancies – _a man who has a vendetta against the Judge and a Judge who quite clearly won't let the girl go – _who _is going to believe there wasn't some sort of foul play? Who?"

"What do _yeh _believe?" Sanders asked.

"I believe…I believe they are both innocent. But I have nothing concrete to base this on. Just a gut feeling."

"Well then," Sanders pulled back his head and gulped the rest of the wine in one go, "Mix the lime and sand, and _make _the damned concrete," he stood up, "I told yeh this because I know out of everyone here, yeh are the one I can trust with this. Before yeh tell the others, yeh will find evidence yehrself, won't you…? Yeh will help them, yes, as best as yeh can?"

Ormond went back to the paperwork, and all he said was, "Well, it is just as well for you and your clients that I _don't _have a woman at home waiting for me, with this sort of impossibility, isn't it?"

Sanders grinned to himself and walked out, while the detective sighed and went back to work. Every small detail would be measured by future generations, he knew this. And he also knew that included himself.


	43. Chapter 43

I did as much research as I could on this matter, and while I couldn't find the processes of Victorian prisons in England, I took this from when I did a tour of the old Fremantle Gaol in Australia, which I know pretty well, which was built in the 1820s, and part of the colony (heehee, could have been where Benjamin Barker was sent) so it would have emulated the English system, so, roughly the same period...Well, just before the Victorian period anyway. It's as close to fact as I can find.

_**

* * *

**_

_**Chapter Forty-Three.**_

In only four short days a remarkable change had come across the Sailor who had been brought in with chains. Certainly, he had been troubled that first day, shrinking in on himself in fear at the utter depravity where he was being held. It didn't seem right being brought into a prison. Don't only the worst sort of people go to prison? The hysteria from before, that he believed he deserved this, disappeared very, very quickly at the reality of the situation. There weren't just thieves behind those walls – there were wife beaters, murderers, rapists…

_Why won't anybody come? Why doesn't Sanders come? Where is Bridget? Why haven't they come?_

But that was four days later, what seemed like a whole lifetime. The first day was the day that he had really left normalcy for Hell.

With his heart pounding on that first day after court, he was led to the processing section, to sit on a hard bench and wait his turn in between several hardened looking other prisoners also awaiting processing. They eyed him curiously and with some disdain, and he supposed he couldn't blame them. Besides the obvious bruising on his figure, his neat attire must have made him look completely out of place next to their torn and dirty clothes. He supposed he looked like the type they would have robbed in an alleyway, and he wondered if they were looking at his good coat and boots and calculating in their heads what they would have made out of him if he had been their victim.

He kept his head low and avoided any sort of eye contact, as one by one the men in front of him were processed, and he shifted further up the bench as new men were brought in, his eyes not moving from his feet.

_"Number 38956, Anthony Hope."_

Anthony looked up startled at the sound of his name, but awkwardly shuffled forward, the sound of the chains binding him clinking as he walked. He kept his eyes lowered as he answered the questions to the person behind the glass window, and complied obediently with the officer who held his arm and directed him over to a yellow line on the cement floor.

"Strip down," the officer then said indifferently.

Anthony blinked and turned his head to the officer, stuttering uncertainly, "I beg…I b-beg your pardon?"

_"Strip down."_

Anthony turned his head self-consciously at the prisoners waiting behind them – who were watching this shy as a virgin bride on her wedding night type snot with mirthful curiosity – and then turned to the officer pleadingly, "Isn't – isn't there some sort of office o–or something?"

He stiffened in embarrassment as he heard one of them sniggering behind him, but it was stopped when the officer turned around and barked, _"Oi!" _and then he turned back to Anthony, tapping his back lightly with his baton, his voice not harsh but firm as he repeated his order from before, "Strip. Down."

Anthony tried to swallow, and later he was not even aware how he had managed to unbutton his coat as his fingers fumbled over the silver buttons, trembling. Once he had gotten the jacket off, he felt a tear slide down his cheek as he untied the cravat, dropping that to the floor, then his grey waistcoat. After the top half had been done, he stood bare-chested, embarrassed at the obviousness of his scrawny build. Years on a ship had toned him well, and he was stronger than he looked of course – but he would never win any boxing matches and he was surprised at the beating his pride on his masculinity was having, by being watched by a bunch of coarse thugs who he usually would not have given a second thought to.

His eyes turned to the officer and a few more tears dripped down, as he prayed for mercy. The officer stood his ground however, but he did murmur ever so quietly that nobody but Anthony at such close proximity to him could hear, "There, there lad…Shyness won't do you any good in here. You're only hurting yourself," and with his trembling hands again, Anthony unbuckled his belt, and squeezing his eyes shut in utter mortification, he let his trousers and underthings drop to the floor. He stood with his back to the prisoners, his eyes swimming with tears, staring at the wall as everything, every private part of himself was bared for the first time in his life to others.

The officer kindly took his arm and made no mention of the boy silently weeping as Anthony stepped out of his trousers and took his boots off, then kicked all of his clothes aside as he stood for everybody to see, in the nude.

_"Don't forget your ribbon, darling!" _one of the men taunted, setting the rest of the line into boisterous laughter and Anthony sniffled as he ripped it out of his ponytail and discarded it with the rest of the things, letting his hair fall to his shoulders.

He was no handsome thespian who conquered a stage in the West End, bringing about the swoons of the ladies. He was no roman statue carved from marble into a faultless figure. He was not even the self-assured and arrogant sailor he had once been who had taken it as his right to roam the seas. He was just a boy, the trembling and weak as piss fool from Cornwall, who was trying to contain the sounds of his humiliated sobs so the other much more grown men would not laugh at him more than what they were. He had regressed to just being the boy who wanted his Mother.

"Move your legs apart, and put your hands on to the wall."

Anthony Hope did as he was told, barely aware of his actions as the officer placed a small mirror on the floor, between his legs. He forced himself to think blankly as his body was examined for anything illicit, and then he was gently pushed back and his prison clothes were placed in his hands. He stood there dumbly until the officer tapped him again lightly with his baton, and then he automatically dressed. But it had hardly seemed to matter. The damage was done – he had left all of his dignity where he had kicked his clothes to the side.

He barely heard the officer telling him that at the end of his stay he could collect his belongings, and barely registered being led through a doorway and into a corridor, with countless cells on both sides of the walls. He did though hear the laughter and the hardened scorn and the mockery and the taunts and the whistling from behind locked doors, _"Finally brought us a woman 'ey Jonesie? Awfully kind o' ya!" _and he kept his head lowered still as he was brought to his own cell.

When the door was unlocked, he could barely hide his disbelief. The room was so small he doubted he could really even walk three strides in it. There was a hammock to lie in which he was certain he would have to curl up in, a basin and pail and a very, very small writing desk and rickety chair. He looked up at the small window, which seemed to have been blocked with decades of grime and he unconsciously stepped back, "Don't – don't make me go in there!"

He was surprised at the tenderness of the officer's voice, as he said, "It's either this or sharing with another, and I don't think you can pick and choose what sort of offender you get lumbered with, lad."

A small whimper left the boy's throat, and he finally moved in, at least thankful that his chains were taken off. He stood there as the officer shut and locked the door, and he would feel shame for it later, but at that moment he had never felt lonelier in his life. The room was so dark, and all he could really hear was his breathing. He finally forced himself to lower himself on the hammock. And all he could do was pray.

Much later he heard the same officer outside his cell talking with another quietly, and it was what he said that finally really made him start to break.

"Heavens, Harrison, I doubt this one's going to last."

And the foolish boy from Cornwall, alone in the dark, wept.


	44. Chapter 44

So I changed the title. Obviously.**_

* * *

_**

_**Chapter Forty-Four.**_

Johanna kept as close as she could to Sanders as they approached the gates to Queen's Prison, Bridget following them behind with Piers, clutching his hand tightly, in dire need. The building was so imposing, made of grey brick – the walls surrounding the establishment were lined with wire and shards of glass. Only Sanders seemed to be unperturbed by the gloomy atmosphere, walking in with his usual air of confidence.

Sanders had knocked on her door that morning back at his house, and had said bluntly, "Make yehrself pretty today, Jo."

She had turned from sitting at her mirror, looking at him curiously until he explained, "He'll need it today dear, trust me on that."

Yet again she borrowed a gown from Bridget, who seemed very absentminded and shaky. Though, she could hardly blame her, from the lack of sleep she had been having, tossing and turning under her sheets restlessly every night since he had been taken into prison. She decided on a light, gay colour – a plain peach coloured gown with elbow length sleeves that gathered at the shoulders, and was finished with ivory lace spilling from the sleeves. She had brushed out her yellow hair with the odd intricate braids here and there, and finished off with a clip with a coral coloured rose, to compliment the gown. Then she stared at herself in the looking glass and could not help but frown. Anthony Hope had saved her from a cage, and his reward was being placed in one himself. Why could she not love him the way he deserved? Why could she not fall desperately for him? Isn't that how the fairytale was supposed to work?

When they arrived and their possessions were inspected, they were led to a visitor's room, which was merely a small room with a row of tables and chairs. It was empty except for one young man in prison white with the usual black arrows decorating the cheap material, and the hat. She was not aware why Bridget all but pushed her unceremoniously out the way, and only realised why as she rushed forward to the lone man, an unrestrained whimper coming from the poor girl as she embraced Anthony.

Johanna's hands clasped over her mouth as she saw the sudden change in her sailor. It had only been a few days, but he had seemed to shrink – the prison uniform seeming to swallow up the body of Anthony Hope. His skin was sallow and paler than even what it had been before, and her eyes detected a very slight tremor in his hands that would not go away, for the whole of the visit. Would it ever go away?

But the most noticeable change in him was not his skin or the fearful demeanour over him, but his _hair. _Or most importantly, the lack of it. Johanna heard Sanders swear and she heard Bridget cry over it, but all she could do was stare at him. An unforgivable act really, as her wordless greeting seemed to have the effect of a slap. His eyes had lingered on her hopefully, then dropped to the ground in shame. But all she could think was – _his hair_. His hair had been _shaved _off.

Sanders moved forward, his hand gently guiding Johanna's back as if he could sense her uneasiness and they sat opposite from him.

Sanders voice was sharp and clipped as he said very, very quietly, "Which officer did this to yeh Anthony? Yehr hair? This is not normal practice, unless there is an outbreak of lice –"

"I'm cold," was what left Anthony's lips.

Sanders at once took his ankle length coat off and moved to the other side of the table, helping Anthony with the coat as if he were a child, fastening the silver buttons gently. Anthony then folded his arms, hugging himself in the new warmth. If it were at all possible he looked even smaller with the broad-shouldered tall man's coat over his little figure.

There was a tremor in Anthony's voice as he said after Sanders sat back down, "Why didn't you come? You promised you would come to me, but you didn't come. I waited and waited and nobody came –"

Sanders gently interrupted him, "Lad, there is so much red tape when it comes to being processed –"

__

_"You didn't come!"_

Sanders moved forward and clasped Anthony's hand, "I'm sorry, Anthony, but we're here now, yes?"

Anthony was about to answer when he noticed for the first time the stranger to him hovering behind everybody and his eyes darkened, "Who is _that?"_

Piers smiled sociably, and Bridget hurried to answer, "This is my suitor, Anthony. His name is Piers, I've wanted to tell you about him for so long, but you've been on your ship with no fixed address you see. We've been together for about four years now."

"Bah!" Anthony spat, "Suitor my left foot! You mean your _lover. _Get out, out, out! You don't mean anything to me!"

"Anthony, dear…" Bridget tried to plead, but Piers smiled at her gently and shook his head. Then he nodded slightly at Anthony, and turned and left the room, leaving behind an atmosphere of awkwardness between the ones who were left.

Anthony stood up abruptly and paced the small room, the _clink, clink, clink _of his chains resounding eerily. He paced as if there was a new feral aspect to him, of an untamed creature who was not used to being caged and who could not abide it, "Sanders, you need to get me out of here…You need to, you need to – I need to get out."

"I know, Anthony. We have a court hearing next week, and I have spoken to the detective about Benjamin Barker, I –"

"Where's my Mother?"

This impulsive question broke Sander's answer, and he looked at Bridget confused. This was new to them both, this restless, brash and madcap version of Anthony Hope and he was uncertain how to proceed.

"Anthony, she's at home in Cornwall," she answered finally.

"Why won't she come? Why doesn't she come to me?" Anthony was scratching his jaw as he paced, nervously, fitfully.

"She's with Papa, he's sick remember. I told you this –"

"Well you go home," Anthony shrugged, "You tend to Father. But I want my Mother."

"Anthony…"

_"I want my Mother! I don't want you!"_

There was such a silence after that statement, and Johanna would have much rathered a screaming quarrel had ensued as Bridget stood helplessly, while Anthony had finally stopped pacing, but his back remained facing her.

"You must understand…" he began.

But Bridget interrupted him, "No, I do. I know you didn't mean that, I know you couldn't have meant that. We're two halves, you and I. You wouldn't send me away."

"You must understand," he continued, "You must understand Bridget, I'm _scared. _I love you, but – but you're no use to me. I want my Mother."

Bridget stood there for a moment before she turned on her heel and walked out of the visitor's room, her back rigid and proud, her chin raised. Johanna felt a bout of pain for the poor girl and without thinking she jumped off her seat and followed Miss Hope.

Sanders said nothing and Anthony did not move, continuing to stare at the rows and rows of bricks, till he heard the scraping of Sander's chair as he stood to depart.

"The officers didn't cut my hair," he finally answered the question Sanders had asked before, "It was in the exercise yard…They all attacked me, dozens of prisoners I didn't even know. And you know why they attacked me, Sanders? Because I am the Black Hope of London. Even in here they're after my blood. The most detestable, detest me. They're going to send me to the gallows for this…Pushing my sister away is one thing. It's good. She'll return to Cornwall, and my Mother will come. I just want to say goodbye to her, is all. I can trust you to keep her away from the execution, she's a little thing. You wouldn't need to fight her like you would with Bridget. To think…I had always assumed I would die in a far more exotic land than London...But she did kiss me, and that _is _something."


	45. Chapter 45

The hymn I have chosen is _It is Well With My Soul. _The background to the hymn is all fact. The only thing I have had a bit of poetic license with is the timeline...It actually all happened in 1871, 30 or so years after this, but meh, sue me. You can Youtube it is well with my soul, and the third one down is nice, if you want to take a listen. It's one of my favourite hymns.

Look, please don't think I'm being whiny, I'm really not. It's just the last four chapters I have gotten no reviews, except one from Noelle and as greatly appreciated as it is, she's my best friend, and yeah. I'm not going to go all annoying and say I'll stop writing unless I get reviews. But please...I'd really be so appreciative if a few of you just dropped me a note on what you think. I know people are reading it, and I totally appreciate that of course, but please drop in a line. Thank you.

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**_Chapter Forty-Five._**

_"Wake up! Chapel in ten!"_

Anthony almost fell out of the hammock in the midst of being caught in the world of slumber and the waking world, unaware of where he was for a moment, in his pitch black surroundings. A short cry left him, but as his bearings weighed in on him, he covered his eyes with his hands and moaned. He was still here. He hadn't died in his sleep. He rested for a few moments longer in the scant warmth he had with the meagre blanket provisioned by the prison, and the jacket that Sanders had given him. Then he forced himself to get up. He had never had to force himself before – he had always been a morning person and on the ship he had been used to not having much sleep. But he had never before been burdened with such fear and uncertainty, so he supposed it was to be expected.

He was glad of one thing though, he supposed, as he readied himself out of his nightclothes and into his prison clothes, slipping his feet into the boots with no laces – can't have any prisoners hanging themselves he thought bitterly, oh no, only the Government was allowed to do _that. _He was glad that there was no mirror to remind himself of the ghoul he had become. His face was swollen and bruised, a cacophony of purples and blacks with a shade of dark blue, and his hair…He tried not to think about the men who had seized him unexpectedly in the exercise yard, his arms being twisted round his back as they pinned him to the cement floor. Utter petrifaction took hold of him in such a manner that he could not even cry out. They swore at him when his fear took hold of his stomach, and the meagre amount he had had for breakfast splashed onto the cement. Dizziness overcame him and he blacked out for a few minutes, waking in full force lying in his own vomit, with the strands and locks of his once hair lying beside him, as evidence of his total hopelessness.

But at least he had not cried.

He knew his sanity was hanging by a thread, a very loose, unravelling thread, but a thread none the less. But he grasped on to it as much as he could. Whenever the taunts and the hatred were hurled upon him he inwardly took comfort in the psalms. And today was the Sabbath. Was the day for chapel.

Still bleary eyed but his mood lightened a little, he waited to be let out and followed the long line of men as they walked. They reached the first level of stairs when he felt the hand behind him shove him, and he cried out as he tripped, grabbing hold of the rails to ensure he didn't break his neck. The man in front of him had been jostled with the fall and turned to him, swearing heatedly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Anthony muttered, knowing the best way to handle this situation was not to draw attention to it and he pulled himself up before the guard could notice.

They were soon in the chapel, and the men filed into the bottom level along the pews, while the women from the female section of the prison filed above them on the top level. The quiet from being led in of course changed to a low buzz as the only interaction they would ever have with the other gender took place. It went along wordlessly of course, but the catching of eyes, the sly winks, the half smiles could not be stopped by any sort of authority.

_"To Johnny, pass it along to Johnny," _he heard the almost silent whispers as a crumpled note was passed in to his hand and automatically he passed it on. It must have been dropped from the top level, the secret intimacy between sweethearts. The thought did not escape him of the respect this Johnny must have amongst the prisoners, whoever he was. With the beatings and the gobs of spit aimed at him and the tauntings and the outright hatred he knew he would not be given this favour by the other inmates. An irrational bout of jealousy threw through Anthony and at once he wished he could take back the note and tear it up in front of all the bastards. Why should this _Johnny_get any respect and favours? What had he done to deserve it? And most importantly – what the hell did Anthony have to do himself to be afforded this privilege?

These thoughts stopped as the prison wardens entered and filed through into the first few rows – they included Harrison who was half decent, Jones the one who had escorted him to his cell and was kind to him, Mickelberg a hard bastard who seemed to hate the whole world, and the list continued. Anthony's brow creased curiously however, as a young girl, perhaps nearing her twenties followed them and sat at one of the pews. Anthony directed his attention to the men's quiet words around him in order to gain the answer of who she was. He ignored the dirty, lewd comments about her but also discovered her name was Ivy Wlliams, the daughter of the chaplain. She had started sewing and embroidery lessons with the female prisoners as a way of training them for honest work once their sentences finished. Her hair hung loosely down her back in chestnut coloured curls, and being from a family of all girls, Anthony knew well enough that they were natural. She wore a plum coloured gown with a modest neckline and long sleeves, with no adornments of lace or beads, and over her shoulders hung a shawl of such dark purple it was almost black. When she had entered, her eyes had fallen over Anthony absentmindedly with a half smile and he dropped his eyes to his feet in utter shame at his appalling appearance, as if she had looked directly at him and smiled only for him.

If he really were to think on it, he supposed the chapel was quite pretty. The altar of oak stood in the front, and on the walls were tapestries of bright red and green and blue and gold depicting each day of creation. The chapel was in a particularly good spot for catching the light, as the rays of crimson and orange of the newly born day, spilled upon all of them. Anthony closed his eyes and basked in a rare moment of peace.

"Saved alone," the chaplain said, as he stood in front of them all, his voice resonating the room.

Anthony opened his eyes and looked upon the man at the pulpit.

After the congregation of prisoners seated themselves on the pews behind them the chaplain continued, "Such a solitary sounding statement; isn't it? Such a lonely one. My friends, I am going to tell you a story, a sad story, about a man who went through many trials in his life and who rose above it, like a phoenix from the ashes, if I may borrow from mythology. There are moments in our lives where God's providence and sovereignty come, which changes the course of our lives. A God-fearing couple from America would know this to the core of their being. Horatio and Anna Spafford were good people - he was an established lawyer and she the model wife and mother. But one day his only son, two years of age, died tragically. To anybody who has lost a child, this is one of the most distressing things a person can endure. And the poor man with the grace of God endured it. In that very same year all of his real estate holdings and all of his possessions were destroyed in the Great Chicago Fire. Again, his wife and himself bravely endured it, helping others who had lost similarly in the fire, ones in dire need. They decided that two years later they would travel to England to carry on with God's work. At the last minute he was called to do business and so he put his wife and four daughters on a sailing vessel and told them he would meet them as soon as he could. In the middle of the ocean the ship was struck by another vessel and in only twelve minutes it sunk to the bottom of the sea. Anna Spafford was unconsciously pulled from the sea, and when she arrived in England she sent back a telegram – _Saved alone…What shall I do? _Spafford joined his wife immediately in England. In utter grief and misery he penned the hymn we are about to sing, as his ship passed near the place where his daughters had died. Why do I tell you this tragic story, you may ask? I tell you this because trials should never define us. What should define is what we become of the ruins of our life. Do not be discouraged, my brothers and sisters. You may be locked away because of mortal law and you may have sinned, but at the end of time when it is Judgement Day, all of us, even rulers of empires, will have to bow to our Maker. We will have to give account to what our lives were. Mr. Spafford is a modern day Job. A man who's whole life was stolen from him. As we stand to sing to our Lord the hymn that Mr. Spafford wrote in his great misery, we must ask of ourselves, what will we make of our lives? Of our own great miseries?"

A modern day Job. Anthony chewed his lip, thinking about his own suffering. Was it at all possible that this was some sort of plan from God?

One of the prisoners who was sitting in the front row moved over to the old piano in the corner of the room, his fingers touching the yellowed keys and playing the introduction as the congregation stood, placing the hymn books open to the appropriate page.

_"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,  
When sorrows like sea billows roll-  
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,  
It is well, it is well with my soul."_

Something had hit his ear. He could feel it. It was sticky and cold and _disgusting. _He did not move. He did not wipe the spit away, as his already precarious strand of peace began to tremble. Defiantly his voice lifted into song, and surprised at how good it felt – he hadn't sung in _months - _he began to get a sense of tranquility back.

_"It is well, with my soul,  
It is well, it is well, with my soul."_

He could hear the cackle somewhere behind him, and he unconsciously fidgeted. Was it directly behind him? No, no, it was coming from the side…No matter. Continue singing Anthony, he told himself…

_"Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,  
Let this blest assurance control,  
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,  
And hath shed His own blood for my soul."_

"Sing like the pompous bastard you are!" he heard hiss behind him, "As arrogant as Lucifer himself. Did you know he was the Angel of Music? Ah how your fine voice shall serve him well as you both share the flames of Hell!"

Anthony's voice wavered. But he continued to sing.

_"It is well, with my soul,  
It is well, it is well, with my soul."_

This time it was another voice, "Enjoy thinking about that yellow haired _bitch, _Black Hope? Did she open her legs as easily for you as she did with the old Judge she lived with? Those moans she gave to you were well practiced. Careful you don't have the pox!"

_"My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!  
My sin, not in part but the whole,  
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,  
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!"_

A note was pressed into his hand. With heated defiance he ripped it into shreds and threw it at his feet, continuing to sing.

_"It is well, with my soul,  
It is well, it is well, with my soul."_

He was shaking. They were all sniggering at him, and he did not know where the pinching was coming from, who was the ringleader. He could hear the whimper at the back of his throat and he loathed himself for it. Today was supposed to have been a good day!

_"For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:  
If Jordan above me shall roll,  
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life  
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul."_

"Maybe you'll give the _bitch _what she deserves finally though, huh, Hope? Your pretty little backside will hurt so much if you ever get out of here, that you'll surely pass it on to her –"

_"It is well, with my soul –"_

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP ALL OF YOU! LEAVE ME THE DEVIL ALONE! YOU'RE ALL BASTARDS! _LEAVE ME ALONE!"_

The unexpected shriek caused the old piano to hesitate its melody, and everybody turned in surprise to the scrawny young man who was pushing his way as fast as he could out of the row he was in, heaving sobs and profanities.

A strong pair of hands grabbed him, and dragged him mercilessly from the chapel. Past the other prisoners – there was so much laughing, so much taunting, and yet again he felt a cold shrapnel of spit hit him – past the wardens who looked as half as amused as the prisoners, past the chaplain with a look of shock – and past Miss Ivy Williams, the only person who's delicate brow was knotted with a look of pity, her and her Goddamned violet eyes!

It was later, much later that he was still in his cramped cell during recreational hour – he was being punished for his display in chapel – but was secretly pleased, having no desire to face more taunts and possibly worse. He had felt his sanity snap in that service…Had he really sworn at the chaplain in _Latin?_

Jones was making his rounds for the afternoon, whistling as he usually did. Anthony did not pay any attention until something slipped from the bars on to the floor without a word. Anthony pounced on it greedily – and tore open the envelope. It had the scent of flowers and vanilla and his excitement could barely be contained – it must be from Johanna! Sanders managed to have it snuck in!

His excitement died as quickly as it had been born. His mouth twitched at the one line.

_"I hope you'll manage to stay the whole of the service, next Sunday." _

He crumpled the note up viciously and threw it with all his might at the other side of the wall. A mocking trick from one of those fiends, just another mocking trick.

_Bastards! All of them!_


	46. Chapter 46

Thank you, thank you, thank you to my two appreciated reviewers.

Ravencaller, I'm SO GLAD you found that curls thing amusing. I often write stuff about Anthony meaning it to be amusing and I wonder if anybody gets the humour. Haha. And you're probably right in that I should maybe leave a little bit between chapters to give people reviews...But I just get so excited...

MoonlitSerenity, THANK you. Yes, it's very sad about anyone coming in contact being infected. And Anthony losing his innocence. I just love the story of Sweeney so much, there are so many layers..Ahhh, I need to watch it again. And I'm glad you like the title...I think it fits. :)

Thank you, your reviews made me happy.

* * *

_**Chapter Forty-Six.**_

It was 2am, and Detective Ormond was busy looking at the hand chased silver of the murderer's weapons, the razors. He was opening and closing one of the blades carefully, imagining the way in which Benjamin Barker would have lovingly used them when he had been sane, in the previous years. He fingered the intricate engravings thoughtfully – what a marvellously lavish treasure it must have been for him, not bad at all for somebody who had risen above his working house days. How gently must he have held it, with such precision and pride. This wasn't something that a mere street vendor would have, but it was something that a servant to a noble would have as his tools. It wouldn't simply have been an occupation or a trade for the man, with something like these. It would have been his _craft, _an art.

Yes, the lawyer had been right about Benjamin Barker after all, Ormond had to begrudgingly admit to himself. All evidence pointed to that conclusion, that it was quite clear he was this Sweeney Todd. The letter from the records office lay over the rest of the his paperwork, giving details of the date and the man's escape from the colony. He had used one of the little Aboriginal girls the estate had adopted from one of the church run institutions, a child called Sasha, to lead him through the scrub and wilderness of Van Diemen's Land. Benjamin Barker had been successful in his escape. Sasha had not.

Abruptly he flicked the blade open, slicing the air, his thoughts still on Sweeney Todd. For a moment he wondered how malleable a human throat was, how supple like clay it would be – how easy would it have been to carve into the flesh, to spill the very lifeline of countless men on to the wooden floor of his establishment? Hell, it would have stained the man's very clothing. All that bloody crimson.

He placed down the razor back into its resting place, in the wooden box, the seven slits all but full with the other razors except for one. It seemed Todd had used one blade in his murders, and the one coated in dried blood was of course with the main evidence. Ormond took off his glasses he wore for work and discarded them on to his desk, rubbing his eyes wearily. This was useless. He was achieving nothing. He half turned to pick up his coat and leave for home, when he heard a footstep behind him at the entrance to this room.

He paused and rolled his eyes, "For heaven's _sake _Sanders, just because I humoured you the other night with allowing you in here, does not mean I will now. As bad as a stray cat – once you start giving it the odd scraps…"

"I beg your pardon, Detective Ormond, but I have heard only good things about you and wished to speak with you urgently. I had it on good authority that you are so dedicated to your work that you would still be here, and I see that I am not disappointed."

Detective Ormond stood up at once, jumping to his feet in haste as he stared at the owner of the voice who was _certainly not _that cursed lawyer. The voice was light and peaceful like, with a heavy German cadence to it, with his over polite words giving evidence as well as the accent that the man was a foreigner.

When the Detective was looking at the man, a small whimper left him as the man started to bow slightly. Ormond had an irrational desire to race up to the man and stop him physically from bowing – the – the very _thought _of it!

The man was wearing a long cloak of sable with a hood that covered his face, but when he pushed it back Ormond was very, very certain of the identity. He could not be much older than twenty seven and even though he had soft features, it did not belie the seriousness in the young man's bearing. Several curls of dark brown framed the man's face, and extended down to his jaw line were thin and neatly trimmed sideburns. The man was half smiling, and above his upper lip was a pencil thin moustache.

Here he was. Good heavens almighty, here he _was. _The last time he had seen him…

A sudden flashback.

_The young couple had been sitting in the open carriage, smiling at the public who had congregated to wave at them. The young man bent down and whispered something in his beloved's ear. She had smiled and laughed, patting his hand.'_

_A flash of a gun above her head._

_The horses had whinnied in panic and there were cries from people with the first gun shot. He had seen the woman try to stand up, but the man had thrown himself over her protectively as the second shot rang out…_

"Your – Your Majesty…"

Ormond's voice wavered in the mixture of awe and disbelief he was having, and he bowed with shameful awkwardness. The Prince did not seem to care however, as he waved his hands to cease the wonderment and get down to business.

"Please Detective," he said, "I understand this is quite an unorthodox event, in fact, one I am sure my own advisors would counsel against. But I fear what I am told about the happenings that have stained this fair nation are filtered somewhat, so I beg of you, to be frank on the matter and disclose what it is you know."

Prince Albert paused as this sank into Ormond and then added apologetically as two or three figures seemed to shift in the shadows of the room, "If you forgive me – I know this is your territory, but Her Majesty forbids me to venture out without the proper security. And I do come on behalf of her, of course. It pains her to see her nation wounded," there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed to also silently add, _you know what women are like._

With a lot of scraping and apologies and stuttering, the Detective offered the Prince a seat and a cup of tea, after scrambling to find underneath the papers on his desk his framed portrait of Queen Victoria. He placed it back in its rightful position of respect. And then he spoke, as frankly as he could.

* * *

It was an hour later when Ormond heard the door slam and the usual heavy footsteps of the lawyer.

"Avery!" he called, "Avery, I need to talk to yeh!"

Ormond stood up at once, as did the Prince, Ormond hurriedly apologising and explaining who the uncouth voice came from.

Sanders entered holding a block of chocolate, and he plunked it on his desk, "Peppermint. There. Ain't I kind? Since yeh don't drink," he looked at the Prince, "And who are yeh? A new underling? That's not fair, Avery, forcing one o' the lads to stay up late with yeh."

_"Sanders –" _Avery hissed, but stopped when with a half smile the Prince put his finger to his lips, shaking his head slightly.

Sanders looked to the young man and held out his hand, "Dane Sanders, one o' those dreaded lawyers yeh coppers seem to hate."

The man took his hand and shook it, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sanders. I am glad to say that I have actually heard of you – congratulations on the Schmidt case!"

Sanders smiled, "Thank yeh – foreign bastard are yeh? German?"

The young man nodded as Ormond cringed, unable to say anything, and Sanders looked at the portrait of the Queen bemused, "Sometimes yeh worry me, Avery, with yehr obsessive allegiance to the woman," he knocked over the portrait, "Plain lookin' lass if yeh ask me –"

Avery could barely contain his calm, _"Dane... For the love of God... Do you have any idea_..._" _he looked to the Prince in horror, "Sir, I am _so_ sorry... He's an idiot, a Scottish, drunken _fool_..."

Prince Albert chuckled a little and said, "For all the criticism she may receive, I don't find her too bad…I've heard she is actually quite the lady," he stood, "If you will excuse me, I think I should go now. Thank you, Detective, for your invaluable insight. I hope to see you again very soon."

Sanders stared at the young man of around twenty seven curiously, his brow furrowing as he mused, "I've seen yeh somewhere before, I _know _it..."

"Perhaps," the man answered non-committedly, and shook the Detective's hand before placing the hood back over his head.

As he departed the room, so did the figures in the shadows. Sanders backed away a few steps in frightened shock, his face stony and pale as he muttered, "Oh...I have a feeling I've just made the gravest mistake…"

To that comment the Detective seated himself calmly, saying, "I suppose I should take some sort of joy in knowing I'll probably be the one arresting you for the gallows..." then he swallowed, "Now, Sanders, hurry up and tell me what you came for. And open that chocolate, I'm famished."

There was a long pause, with the lawyer's eyes not moving from the doorway, and muttered under his breath, _"Oh…Shit."_

* * *

It's me the writer again, now, before you throw things at me and say that'd never in hell happen, hear me out. Albert was known to take care of a lot of these sorts of things. Now of course there's no evidence to say he randomly rocked up at people's places in the middle of the night, but there were cases of other royals doing that in times of dire need. Also, I'm assuming this fictional case would have been just as big as the Ripper murders, with London in full panic. And I know that Victoria was very interested in the goings on of her nation...Actually, you know what? I'm not going to lie. Besides the fact I wanted to reflect how big the murders would have been, I'm just also completely in love with Prince Albert...You can blame Rupert Friend for that. And I wanted a lighthearted chapter after a load of angst.


	47. Chapter 47

Ahhh, thank you BeBopALula! Good to see someone knew what I was talking about. Ohh, and when he was playing the piano...Lord, I swear she was one lucky woman. Thank you for your kind words!

I'm way too obsessed with this story...

* * *

_**Chapter Forty-Seven.**_

Margaret Armstrong knew it was cruel…Knew it was manipulative…But she had no choice. She had received a curt and short note from that snake, Dane Sanders, and it lay burning in her fireplace – _"The young lady has no wish to meet the family she believes abandoned her and her Mother. Apologies. Dane Sanders."_

Margaret opened up a small diary, with a velvet cover of violet and gold, flicking to one of the pages. Sighing, she placed her reading glasses on and began to read her great-granddaughter's flowing handwriting.

_16th of April, 1829._

_Today was supposed to be one of the last few days of my trip with Grandmamma and Grandfather, but to be truthful it turned into quite the event. I shall write it down so I remember every detail, and then Kitty won't tell me off when I forget certain things when I am recounting them to her. Grandmamma had been talking to me in French and Grandfather in German simultaneously, in efforts to try and trip me up, as they had promised me a treat if I did not make any mistakes. I am pleased to say that I had not, much to their half-hearted chagrin, though perhaps that was because we were interrupted suddenly before the test could really be made in depth._

_My poor Grandmamma had the biggest fright, and she grabbed hold of me tightly as the carriage which had been driving along peacefully up until then, nearly tipped over abruptly. The horses stopped immediately and Grandfather was vexed – I am afraid I shan't repeat some of the things he said to the poor carriage driver, but it is safe to say it wasn't very polite._

_Apparently there was something wrong with one of the wheels – some technical detail that was rather boorish. The carriage driver, trying to placate Grandfather said he would walk to the next inn and procure another carriage to pick us up. Perhaps that would have been suitable for my Grandparents as I suppose they are rather old, but I thought it rather pointless myself. It was such a clear lovely day, and I could smell the sea-salt air of Brighton that one does not have in London. The wildflowers patterned along the sides of the road seemed so tempting enough to pick, and I relished the idea of walking the rest of the way like a tramp._

_I could not leave my Grandparents alone however, but this was not needed as another carriage - one of those open ones Quentin at home thinks amusing to drive while standing up at full speed - leisurely came past and stopped after seeing our predicament. _

_There was some talk about an inn half a kilometre away and that they would only be too happy to take us with them. I am afraid I'm going to be reprimanded by Grandfather later after dinner for what I did next, but I had been in the carriage for three hours already. I ignored this kind offer, shouted out that I would meet them there presently and hitched up my skirts, trotting off on foot._

_Oddly enough in a few moments the carriage drove past. I had not expected Grandfather to allow me to do such a thing, but when I turned back I realised why. Where the carriage had left, stood a young man watching me. They must have left him to make certain I was safe on my trip back. I laughed – not cruelly - but it was amusing thinking they thought this slip of a man could be any protection anyway. I gestured for him to follow…_

_Oh I do so love this calligraphy pen. It flows so much better than my last one, and the pen is of an eggshell blue that I haven't seen in any calligraphy shop in London. I wish I could have bought the bottle of green ink, but Grandfather said green ink is only for lunatics…Why is it that the mad have all the fun?_

_I gestured for him to follow and when he was nearer I saw he had the softest shy smile. He had dark curls – I've always liked dark curls, they seem so European, but his boots looked worn and his coat of charcoal grey was hardly the latest fashion. I was immediately drawn to him. There was a sincerity about his character as he shyly approached me, that made me smile. So many of the men back in my circles back home took it as their right as they confidently guided me to the floor to dance, but there was something about this man…I had such a silly urge to want to hold his hand…_

_"Was it your Father that owns the carriage?" I asked, knowing it was a silly question judging from his clothes. He was most probably a servant, but I did not want him thinking I was uppity. I never liked talking to the servants as if I were above them – it drove Grandfather quite made when he would find Kitty gossiping with me as I helped her polish the silver. I suppose I am quite odd._

_Oh, a reminder to myself by placing these flowers in my diary. I need to press them later for Mother's birthday card._

_"No, Miss," his eyes dropped at his feet as he answered, "He is my employer – that is – Gregory Forbs – I am his apprentice, he took me from the working house. He's a kind master."_

_"Ah – shall we walk together?" I replied._

_He nodded nervously, and I began to walk – but had to stop when he continued a few paces behind me. I turned back to him, "Won't it be difficult having a conversation, with you behind me?"_

_He blinked and shifted on his feet awkwardly, then said, "I suppose, Miss," and took his place beside me as we both made our way to the inn._

_"Do you come to the seaside often?" I asked, trying to make conversation._

_"My Master comes every Summer, and this year he brought me along," he answered._

_"Ah," I replied, then laughed a little, "Do forgive my rudeness – my name is Lucy Armstrong. May I ask what yours is?"_

_"Benjamin Barker," he replied hesitantly, and I had to clasp my hands together as the sudden peculiar urge to hold his again took me._

Margaret Armstrong sighed, and using a ruler one of her grandsons – an architect – had left in her home back in the days when he was studying, she placed it carefully in the binding of her Lucy's old diary and tore out the page. She felt a stab of pain at the thought of damaging something so precious, but she shook that thought away. She folded it and held it to her lips for a moment, the faint scent of flowers still lingering after all these years, being kept in a trunk. Then she placed it in an envelope with no other note, sealed it and once again, wrote _Johanna Barker _and the address.

It was cruel, she knew, but with this hint and the opportunity of learning more about her parents from her own Mother's hand, what orphan could possibly resist in coming eventually?


	48. Chapter 48

In such a rush, if there are any mistakes I apologise, I will edit them out tomorrow.

Noelle, thank you for your review, love you to bits.

Please review.

* * *

_**Chapter Forty-Eight.**_

Johanna was beside herself and had not left her room for over an hour, after a mysterious letter had found its way beside her breakfast plate that morning. Sanders was not aware of the content until she had thrust it at him. He looked over it and immediately understood. The manipulative old banshee, thinking she could tie strings around Jo like a lonely old spider wanting its kill. So, she had kept some sort of diary of Miss Lucy's had she? Calculating doxy. It wasn't half bleedin' obvious that the girl would be vulnerable in this time in her life – she couldn't wait till things settled first before scheming away? No. Of course not – she knew when to strike.

He had a meeting early that morning, but the sound of Johanna wailing helplessly while pacing her room made Sanders grab his coat and hat, and instead of going to his office, he went straight to where the spider lived.

He had often wondered what Margaret Armstrong was like to be honest, he had heard so many things about her. She had always been as quiet as a mouse, yet it was rumoured that at her Clarence's funeral she had laughed and laughed and laughed. Of course the Armstrongs had paid good money for the press not to use that, but things had a way of filtering through to Sanders. Well…Taking the daughter of the editor of the main paper's to bed might have given him some sort of insight. Sanders instinctively winced, touching his neck subconsciously – her nails had been _sharp _when he had ended it.

He was taken up by a maid to Margaret Armstrong's drawing room and waited while she came. He looked around the room as he stood, moving forward automatically as he stared at the portraits on the wall in thought. All memory of Lucy being of the Armstrong family had apparently been wiped away when she had disgraced them with the young barber, but…

"Enjoying my art collection, Mr. Sanders?"

Sanders turned to the doorway, to the formidable looking woman standing quite proudly, leaning on an ebony cane with a silver tip. He creased his brow as he stared at her. Her grey eyes staring at him were rather discerning, but he could not look away. Bloody Medusa.

He took off his hat and bowed, only too glad to be able to rip his eyes away from her. When he had raised himself, she had seated herself and gestured for him to do the same.

"Where is my Great-Granddaughter?" she asked bluntly.

Sanders sat himself down and clasped his hands together as he answered just as bluntly, "She won't come. I believe I wrote that to yeh."

"But why not?"

"I believe I wrote that to yeh too, Ma'am."

A muscle twitched in the old lady's cheek and she said pensively, "How interesting it is that one who was caged does not recognise another in an equally secured prison…It was not by my choice Lucy could not be helped…"

At the mention of Lucy, Sanders turned his head back to the walls of portraits, ponderingly.

"You did not answer my question, Mr. Sanders," the woman said, "What do you think of my art?"

Sanders stood and moved forward, his hands tapping his chin as he surveyed them, "I assume yeh had all o' these commissioned."

"Oh, but of course. A French painter, I think he died in utter squalor, the dream of every real artist I suppose. The usual romanticised nonsense of _suffering for their art. _But wasn't his hand _fantastique?"_ She studied his reaction.

"Oh no doubt, no doubt of it…I'm not really interested in art, but I know when somethin' is good," he paused, "And I also know when somebody is a crazy old bint."

Margaret laughed good-naturedly, saying nothing, but continuing to watch the lawyer look over the paintings.

The brushstrokes were meticulous, the detail painstakingly particular. He had not known the woman of course, but he knew her daughter well. The shade of gold, that sweet dimple, the tilt of her chin…Those cornflower blue eyes.

Every picture was disguised as art. From Helen of Troy with her voluminous white gown and her yellow hair billowing in the breeze, to the Lady of Shallot waiting miserably for her Lancelot on her knees by the lake, to the Maid of Orléans in her silver armor in a field of wild poppies, every single portrait was obviously of the same woman, with the same touch of sadness. Every single portrait was of Lucy Armstrong.

"My Clarence spent most of his time in this particular room in his declining health. The poor man – after the stroke he couldn't walk by himself. Do you know, he couldn't even talk. He had to rely on me for every single facet of his life, every movement of his had to be directed by myself, an unbearable thing for such a once independant man to endure; he had to spend his last _years_ in this room. Looking up at this art. Looking up at that face, all those faces. Why, sometimes I would catch him shaking, tears just streaming down his lined face, so _touched _by the artist's handiwork he was. So I just kept on commissioning piece after piece after piece, and so he did not grow bored, I had them changed regularly. There are so many more paintings in the attic. So many."

Sanders turned to stare at the woman, determining the hidden bitterness in the polite words, also detecting the resentfulness and the amusement.

The perfect revenge for the caged wife herself. He raised his hands and clapped, "Yeh certainly hold a candle to the devil, woman."

She nodded slightly, then stood up and went to a cabinet, taking out a frame of pure silver. She came over to Sanders, cradling it gently, and then passed it to him, "My life is a shrine to the granddaughter I lost, Mr. Sanders. Is it obscene? Is it disturbing? Possibly. But I am a dying woman, and I don't really care. Once I pass on, all of this of course will be bequeathed to Johanna. Have no doubt of it. My desire to meet her will never come with the condition that she will receive all of this only if she does come. But – it is my last wish to speak with her. Tell her about her Mother. Earn the love of Lucy's daughter. Seek her forgiveness. If you could only give this to her and ask her to think on it – think again on seeing me."

Sanders looked down at the framed newspaper clipping from nearly twenty years ago. It looked fragile under the glass, and yellowed of course with age. But he read nonetheless:

_The soon-to-be anticipated debutante of Kensington Palace Gardens and the darling of London, Miss Lucy Armstrong became the lady of the hour while on holiday with her Grandparents – Mr. Clarence Armstrong being the chief executive of the Bank of England. The Armstrongs were on the last leg of their annual spring tour of the seaside when Miss Armstrong reportedly ran into the Brighton sea, rescuing Freddie Atkins, three years of age, from imminent and almost certain drowning. Witnesses state that it was as if a "shock of gold" darted into the waves from the shore, retrieving the terrified child. Mother and son have since been reunited. Mr. Armstrong of the Bank of England has been under considerable exposure since the Bank Charter Act took place in 1844 which was responsible for the restriction of the powers of British Banks, giving absolute powers to the Bank of England. The press officer of the Armstrong dynasty has released a statement saying that the family is "of course proud of Miss Armstrong's heroics, and are thankful to God that Master Atkins is safe with his family" but decline any further comment directed towards business. Miss Armstrong will be making her debute in Mid July at the esteemed Rivoli Ballroom. Prospective suitors for the young lady are rumoured to consist of the esteemed Dutch architect Jesper De Vries, the Honourable Judge Turpin and Lord Nolen of Glastonbury. Only time will tell who is the successor in wooing Miss Lucy Armstrong._

He looked at the old woman and then said, "I will try my best, Ma'am," and left the mansion of the lonely, widowed Margaret Armstrong still undecided whether she was very clever or very insane.


	49. Chapter 49

Raaaavencaller, thank thee very much as usual. Oh, seriously, it makes me look so lame but I swear I always get mixed up with the damn Grandmother and Great-Grandmother thing! Grah! But thank you for picking that up, the moment I can I'll edit that. And feel free to laugh at me and point out other mistakes. And haha, yes, they were sickeningly sweet...I find it hard to write "love at first sight" stuff because I'm not really a believer of it (I'm a cynical hoe, according to Noelle) and so I try to make it believable. I bet you're right about Sweeney, the bastard, though..Mm..You have to wonder if there was some sort of split personality between Benjamin and Sweeney. Haha, glad you liked the Albie bit. That was such a gamble, I thought it could come across as really lame, but thought, eh, screw it, I really want to put it in. *Takes deep breath* Yeah. And thanks as usual!

Please read and review, all my lovelies. Yes, I'm in an odd mood, my apologies. Wow...Next chapter is the 50th...

* * *

_**Chapter Forty-Nine.**_

A pool of soft candlelight glowed through Johanna's half open bedroom door as Sanders was making his way from the kitchen to his own room, a plate in his hand of a generous slice of apple butterscotch pudding. It was nearing midnight and he was just going to look over some last few things before retiring for the night. He peered into the room to wish her a goodnight, but stopped when he saw her propped up by pillows in her bed, but clearly asleep. He moved in and rested the plate on the bedside table as he gazed down at the small figure, her golden hair spilling over the pillows, and her hands grasping loosely on the framed newspaper clipping that the old Armstrong battleaxe had given her. He bent down to take the beginnings of a quilt she was sewing together for Anthony, looking at all the books that littered her bed. She was obviously trying to design some sort of embroidery, for the books had pictures and pictures of Viviane, the Lady of the Lake who had presented King Arthur with Excalibur as some sort of inspiration. Children and their fairytales, he thought as he began to tidy away. Bundles of brightly coloured thread were hidden underneath the books, and these too were placed in the bedside drawers. He would need to find a new chaperone, Miss Hope was useless and it was hardly appropriate for him to be doing such things.

He went to take the frame away, but when he tried to lift it from her arms, her grasp tightened unconsciously in her sleep and he stopped with a sigh. She could put it away when she woke. He stood to turn but heard her stirring, and the soft moans of waking.

"Dane…" she mumbled, her hand feebly taking his.

"Mmm, Lass?" he replied, turning back to her.

"Tell me what to do," she pleaded, half groggily.

He sat down on a chair, pulling himself closer to the bed to look at her, "Jo," he said, "I cannae tell yeh what to do. It's yehr life, isn' it?"

"A woman's life is _never _her own, Dane," Johanna said quietly.

"No," he shrugged with an ironic laugh, "I suppose not. Family is family too, isn't it? Wouldn't it be nice to…Belong somewhere?"

Her mouth curved in a slight smile and she said, "You just told me you couldn't tell me what to do, then insinuated it anyway!"

He laughed quietly along with her with a shrug, "I'm a lawyer, it comes with the trade I suppose, covering yehrself."

There was a pause, before she turned her head to the dessert he left on the table, "Oh – is that for me?"

Sanders looked at the pudding longingly. It had been the last bit in the bowl – that Laura was an unnaturally good cook…But then he broke off a piece and nibbled it, "…Thought we could share it."

She took the plate once Sanders passed it to her and he watched it as she placed it beside her, forgotten for the moment, "I don't know if I want to – I want to meet her, but – but they all abandoned us…Abandoned my Mother…"

Sanders lent forward and took another handful of the pudding, breaking off a bit and nibbling as he said thoughtfully, "Take it from one who's older, Jo – life is a damned complex thing. People are odd creatures – I have the feeling Mrs. Margaret Armstrong was in as much of a prison as yeh were with the Honourable Judge. Age doesn't give one more power – I would gather she was as powerless as yeh, but with more pain as a price. Pity her Jo."

He ate his last piece of pudding but then stood when there was a pounding on the front door. The knocking held a level of urgency and he hurried to answer before it woke his Mother upstairs and distressed her.

It was Piers the French lover of that Hope girl and in his arms was Bridget herself, passed out, her face leaning into his shoulder, her hair undone shamefully and hanging down in tangles and her feet bare of any shoes.

_"What in the hell –" _Sanders began, as Piers pushed through, making his way to the sitting room where he placed her on a lounge.

Piers made a gesture with his hand as if he were drinking, and immediately Sanders understood disgustedly, "Well, that's a right real Ladybug right there, isn't it?"

Piers looked at him confused and Sanders was glad that the man could not speak fluent English and had not understood that his sweetheart had just been called a whore. Instead he watched as Piers knelt down, murmuring concernedly in his native tongue to the girl, taking his coat off and covering her with it, his fingers gently and lovingly tracing her face.

"Why do yeh tolerate such behaviour from her?" Sanders asked, and to clarify his meaning asked more simply, "What's wrong with her?"

He heard footsteps from behind him and the short gasp from Johanna, who was the one to answer his question, "Anthony sent her away…I knew it had hurt her."

Piers nodded at this, and then said something else to her in French. She looked at him confused and asked in English, "But isn't that a good thing?"

"What?" Sanders looked from his Jo to the foreigner, "What are yeh both blabbering about? I know a little French, but not enough."

Johanna looked at him, "He said her Mother sent word to them today. Her Father has recovered. Weak, but better. And so she is coming to London as soon as she can. But Piers, that is good news – now she can stay and both she and her Mother can see Anthony together."

The French man lowered his face to his lover's, his lips brushing her cheek tenderly, then said in his best English, "Yes, Miss Barker. And that is exactly the problem."

* * *

The next morning was cool and crisp, and Johanna's mood had lightened, in spite of the happenings of the evening. Much to Sander's mutterings, he had allowed the French man to stay beside Bridget Hope in the sitting room. They had both been asleep when she and Sanders had left. In her hands she held a new gift from Margaret Armstrong that had come that morning – it was a framed photograph, and she had not been able to put it down, the moment it had been received. A note had accompanied the gift – a simple message: _Dear, do not fret. This is the last time I will trouble you, until you have come to a decision about visiting me. But after my Lucy married, she sent me this photograph of her wedding day in secret. I hope you treasure it and display it with love, as opposed to the years where I had to cherish it hidden away. I believe the colour of the gown was called ashes-of-roses. This was before the days where our Queen turned pure white the in vogue colour for bridal gowns when she married her Prince Albert. With much love._

Surprisingly for its age, the photograph was clear. The new Lucy Barker was seated in a simple gown, her hair flowing down her shoulders in an unusual fashion statement of the time. Usually brides wore their hair pinned up. A veil had been lifted back over her hair, showing with no doubt the broad smile of her Mother. A bouquet of Summer blooms rested on her lap, and behind her the very proud bridegroom stood very handsomely in a suit, his hand resting on the shoulder of his beloved affectionately. She surveyed his figure most of all, remembering the terror she had felt realising the Demon of Fleet Street had been her Father. There was no sign at all of that man in this groom. There was only joy.

Anthony was of course waiting for them in the visitor's room. She was still uncertain of seeing him, especially as it seemed his trembling hands were only getting worse. He would twitch every so often, and this time when she was seated she clasped it in her own, trying to soothe her sailor. It pained her when this did nothing to ease the trembling. She searched her mind for any subject that would take his mind, if even for a little while, off of his current abode. She hesitantly held out the framed wedding photograph of her parents. He looked at her confused, but obliged her by taking it.

"I hope – I hope this does not upset you, but – but my Great Grandmother on my Mother's side – she is trying to contact me and – it's a long story, but Anthony, she sent me this photograph. I know that Mr. Sweeney Todd upsets you and forgive me – but this was Benjamin Barker…Don't you see? Those are my parents…Benjamin and Lucy Barker. Anthony, I've never had a family before…" her voice trailed as his eyes stared at the photo he held. His face had turned such a sickly white and she regretted instantly having given it to him. Her own hand twitched as she thought that perhaps she should pry it off him before he did something damaging to it…

"Forgive me, forgive me," she said upset, "It hurts you seeing him – I was a fool – I only wanted to share with you –"

"Sanders," he interrupted, making the lawyer turn from standing at the doorway, "Sanders, I need to talk to you immediately."

Sanders moved over at once curious about the sudden urgency, "What is it, lad?"

"I've upset him," Johanna said forlornly, "I've –"

"Sanders, please, take Johanna out right now. I need to tell you something."

The girl did not need to be told twice and stood and moved away, her eyes lowered as she stepped out of the room and shut the door.

"I hope yeh understand –" the lawyer began in a frustrated tone.

But Anthony interrupted him impatiently, "You _need _to listen to me on this. You need to tell the authorities and – I don't know – do what it is you do, but first you must listen to me. Do you remember when the police forced me to…Forced me to…" Anthony swallowed and made himself continue, "Look at that wretched corpse of that woman Sweeney Todd murdered – Sanders, you must believe me. Don't you dare ask me if I am sure, because I dare _you _to try and forget a corpse that you were forced to stare at only inches away from your face. Dane Sanders, I swear to you right now, this figure in the photograph, the bride – Johanna's Mother – that corpse with her throat slit was Lucy Barker. Oh, Jesus wept, he murdered his own wife!"


	50. Chapter 50

Haha Raven, yes you are indeed amazing. Ohh, I didn't mean for it to be creepy, him sitting there..Hmm...I will tell Sanders to settle down a bit...Did I just say I'd talk to my own character? Oh lord, I'm turning into one of those weird fanfiction writers...Ohh, glutten - I had the *nicest* piece of glutten free chocolate cake today, which I know has nothing to do with anything, but I thought I'd say that. And I think with Anthony, just everything adding up he has trouble processing. He really thought Sweeney was such a nice fellow. And I'm not just saying that with the past I've created for him, it just amuses me how easily Anthony trusts this obviously unhinged looking dude, like a puppy, in the film. Thank you, as always.

Please read, enjoy and review people.

Fifty chapters...Damn.

* * *

_**Chapter Fifty.**_

Anthony's thoughts were swimming in his head, unclear and fractured. He was surprised in a way, most of all because he had been able to get away with what he had done so easily. But he supposed perhaps it was because Sanders had been sitting there lost in his own thoughts that he had not noticed properly what had happened. And he supposed nobody expected Anthony Hope to masquerade behind innocence. Because that's all he was in reality, wasn't he? He thought with a touch of bitterness. The clueless, innocent pup.

"I must ask Jo what it was that she saw…" the lawyer had murmured aloud.

"No!" Anthony responded, "Why would you even think that? As far as she is concerned her Mother already passed away – don't reopen wounds for her, Sanders –"

Sanders sighed frustrated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "It has to be done, boy. For this investigation to be successful, everything needs to be examined with a fine toothcomb. I'll have to tell her…"

Anthony said nothing, thinking on the ordeal himself. The shock had subsided somewhat – the jolt of seeing that woman _alive. _The hideous corpse he had seen, now smiling in the photograph in her bridal dress. He had been able to push reality aside before, merely thinking of the woman as nameless, identity less – but to realise she had had a name, a smile, a beating heart, a hand who had rested on her shoulder affectionately, who had had warmth, who had been part of Johanna.

_"She was his reason and his life,  
And she was beautiful,  
And she was virtuous…"_

Why – why on earth would he murder the love of his life? What had caused him to discard her so cheaply with a razor – the woman he was devoted to…He had _loved _her. This made no sense – murdering strangers and people who had done him wrong, ruined his life – that had horrified but had made sense to Anthony, but this…To slash the throat of the woman he had sworn sacred vows to God to love and protect, that was senseless. Had the many years of separation been too much to cope with? Had he found a different woman to the bride he had been taken from? Had _she _not been able to accept the changes herself in her returned husband? From the photograph was the memory of a very different young man to the hardened and seemingly soulless man he had become. Had she been unfaithful with another, and the very idea of another taking what Todd deemed rightfully his, been his undoing? There were too many questions, too many scenarios…

It seemed Sanders was trying to sort through his own mess of thoughts himself, as the two remained in silence. An odd thought took hold of Anthony, and before he could really think it through, with one eye on Sanders who was absentmindedly staring at the wall, and one eye on the doorway to see if anybody would come in unexpectedly, his hand crept to the photo frame and inch by inch he started to tug at it, till it toppled off the table and crashed to the floor.

Sanders looked up sharply as Anthony cried out regretfully and bent down quickly to pick up the broken frame; carefully making sure the old photograph wasn't harmed. He placed it on the table and went to tidy up the shards, greedily grabbing at a slice of glass and in a motion that would make a magician proud he tucked it into his sleeve just as Sanders, none the wiser, moved over helping him and tapping his hands away with a reprimand of, "Yeh'll cut yehrself, leave it to me."

After it was tidied and Anthony's visit was over, he was led out by an officer past Johanna. His eyes immediately avoided hers, muttering an apology. He was taken back to his cell and locked away like the animal they had all condemned him to be.

He sat on the hammock, for the first time with a smile – however twitchy it was. From his sleeve he pulled the piece of broken glass and held it to his eye, examining its fragility, but also its sharpness. However small it was, it was a weapon. Immediately he felt a little safer from the threats he had to endure and never doubted would be carried out if given half the chance. Smitty, Jenkins, Pitman – all those bastards who had taunted him. He pictured the look on their faces as they grabbed him yet again, their laughter turning to confusion as he struck out at them with such a small object. How an eye would burst like an overripe grape sliced open, blood and fluid streaming down like tears. How if with just the right amount of pressure a lasting scar could be etched into a face. How a lip could be torn as easily as flower petals. It would only be moments of course when he would be pulled away, but permanent injuries would be carved into their faces.

He smiled and immediately set about crawling about on the floor to find a loose piece of flooring to hide it so it would not be confiscated, then stood satisfied. And it was just as well for him, for at that moment the door was unlocked and Flinders, one of the guards announced that the chaplain wished to see him. Obediently he allowed himself to be handcuffed and was taken through the corridors to the chaplain's study.

The room was all dark browns and burgundy, with an oak desk and comfortable chairs. One wall was covered by a cabinet full of leather bound books and Anthony had to force himself not to go over and press his nose to the glass longingly.

"Uncuff him Flinders," the chaplain said kindly, seated at his desk – and to Anthony's surprise the guard did so.

In a moment the guard left, leaving Anthony standing awkwardly.

"Sit, sit," Jeremiah Williams gestured to a chair.

Anthony did not take his eyes off the chaplain as he did as he was told. He felt guilty for his suspicion towards a man of the church, but Anthony had disrupted the service at chapel and had sworn at him as he was hauled out blinded by his rage, and so the kindness of the man did not seem right.

"I see you are wary of me," the chaplain said perceptively.

Anthony chose not to answer.

"I also see that you are an educated man, Mr. Hope," the chaplain said cheerfully as if he had not been ignored, "In all my years being here I have never been sworn at so intelligently. Latin wasn't it? _Es mundus excrementi. _A pile of –"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Anthony's voice was shaking, "I wasn't – I wasn't angry at you…I…"

"Of course you weren't," the chaplain nodded, "It is man's basest instinct to conceal fear with anger. I am not an idiot – I am well aware of what it is like for a man such as you to enter this system…They draw to you like flies, don't they? They want to take every bit of goodness from you and destroy you, as they are themselves destroyed. It is an odd thing – the gratification mankind has in destroying good."

There was silence, as Anthony still sat in silence. Still uncertain how this meeting was to take shape and not willing to trust anything as of yet.

"I have been doing my own bit of research on you, Mr. Hope," the chaplain turned to his papers, "Tied top of your classes with another boy for most of your school years. Your strengths were geography, languages and music it would seem. Do you enjoy music?"

Anthony mumbled an answer to the affirmative.

"Ah! Grand! And it also says you were accepted into the cathedral's choir…You can sing?"

Anthony finally caught his eye and said nothing, suddenly weary of everything. It was all very well having blatant threats thrown at him, he could handle that, but new threats under the guise of honeyed words – he did not want to bother with kindness. It would turn against him, it always did. Why on earth would anybody be genuinely kind to him here? He was the _Black Hope of London_ after all – a realisation suddenly dawned on him. This was all a game to try and trip him up – the chaplain was in leagues with the police, trying to force some sort of confession out of him through friendship.

It did not escape the chaplain's notice – the confused look on the boy suddenly turning to hardness. He felt a sudden pang for the boy – he had only been here for a short while and already he had learned to hate and doubt and suspect everybody.

"I _used _to sing, Sir," Anthony answered levelly, "But I have since lost all reason for it."

"That's a shame," the chaplain answered, "I was hoping to start a prison choir you see, to give heart to the others," he added slyly, "It would take up a lot of recreational hours however, which I am sure you enjoy spending with all the other inmates. Have you made any friends?"

Anthony detected the change of tone in the chaplain but mistook it for sarcasm and so he said nothing, but shrugged, so resolved to not trust anybody.

"I'll let you think on it, hmm?" the chaplain asked, and without waiting for a reply he called the guard back in.

Anthony said nothing as he was taken back to his cell, his eyes lowered to his feet till he was locked away. Then when the footsteps of the guard faded away, he scrambled to his knees and took out the piece of glass again, trying to determine how he could have it on himself at all times.


	51. Chapter 51

Thank you Phish Tacko.

Short chapter, but hope you all enjoy. Please read and review. Thank you.

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**_Chapter Fifty-One._**

Ivy Williams had a headache. She had been working with the women all day at Queen's Prison, and her temple seemed to be pounding mercilessly. Every hour she had a group of around fifteen women to train – bending over their sewing, gently correcting faults and encouraging them on their progress. She raised her palm to her forehead and sighed wearily – it seemed this day would _never _end. She had nothing against these women; indeed she was very proud of all of them – without being as patronising as that sounded. But if truth were to be told, she wished she had been given a more stimulating task when she had asked her Father if there was any good she could do. He had looked at her vaguely at such a request, and she sometimes thought perhaps her Father really had no idea what to do with her. Her Mother had died years ago, leaving her in the charge of her Father who had the burning ambition of reaching the lost, and no sudden becoming the sole caregiver of his little girl was going to stop that. If she had not known her Father any better she would have thought he had hardly noticed her Mother's passing, so involved in the work of God he became after her death. But the many years that had come and gone had taught her that her Father immersed himself in his work the most when he was burdened with sadness.

Most children spend their young days in playgrounds and skipping on chalk drawn hopscotch squares on the streets where they lived, but Ivy's childhood had been spent inside the walls of this prison. Every cobblestone, every brick, every secret corridor she had memorised as she had played, as well as any other child would know every knot in the favourite tree they climbed. She had never been neglected however, and there was never a moment where she was not watched. She had seemed to become part of the very fabric of this prison, this strange little lonely girl with rare violet eyes who would sing hymns at the top of her high voice just to hear the strange echoes bouncing off the walls. What an odd place for a girl to think of with as much familiarity as the home she lived in.

She stood and excused herself while the guard in the corner nodded and she walked outside trying to ignore the watchful gaze of another guard. The pounding in her head was ceaseless and she sat down as dizziness began to befall her. She tried to empty her mind but when this proved futile, her hand dipped into the pocket of her sewing apron and she pulled forth a photograph.

She knew if her Father had discovered she had taken this, he would be _furious. _There would be no way she could escape his usual absentmindedness when it concerned her, then. It was a photograph of that young man, the one they called the Black Hope of London, the sailor. Her Father liked to do his own research on certain prisoners when it concerned him. He had been convinced the sailor was innocent – and though he was a chaplain and a man of God, he was not usually wrong with those sorts of things. He knew a thing or two about human nature, and she had overheard him saying it was a shame the whole blame of a nation was being placed upon his shoulders.

The back of the photograph had a date and the details of a party written in faint pencil, and the picture was of him only a few years ago. How changed he looked from the hunted criminal he was now. And how _handsome. _The photograph had been hand-coloured with powder, the new rage which had started recently in Europe and had swept through London, fascinating Ivy to no end. To paint photographs…To add colour to the dreary black and white! She looked down at young Anthony Hope, her thumb fondly touching the figure. His hair was tied back strikingly and he wore such a carefree smile, his coat over his shoulder as he leaned on a cane with pretend haughtiness. His cravat and matching waistcoat were a light manor blue, with gold buttons. What sort of party had it been? Why did he look so happy and amused? Had a friend made a joke just as the photograph had been taken? Had the photographer been annoyed at this youthfully insolent end product to his work? Usually people were so solemn and serious in photographs…She wished she could have known _that _Anthony Hope. He was far different to the one everybody hated now.

She remembered she had seen him dragged from chapel, and her heart had felt for him at his desperate fear. A man of the world to have roamed the seas – it must be a bitter pill to swallow indeed to be caged so.

She sighed and hid the photograph once more in her apron before she stood and moved back to return to the sewing class. She hoped he had received the small note she had given to kindly Jones to smuggle to him, for her. Again, her Father would be appalled at her to know she had done such a wickedly bold thing, but there was just something about that beautiful sailor that caused her to want to reach out to him. The caged adventurer.


End file.
